


making new clichés

by strangetowns



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Boys Being Boys, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Recreational Drug Use, Swearing, guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-09-28 04:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 132,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10072808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetowns/pseuds/strangetowns
Summary: “You’d feel better knowing,” Even says. “What we are.”“Yeah,” Isak says. “Something like that.”“Then I’d say,” Even says, “we can be whatever you want us to be.”-In this universe, Isak and Even are best friends. Some things are different; some things stay exactly the same.





	1. Part I - live my life in black and white

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively: a childhood best friends AU, because my brain decided we needed yet another one of those and then proceeded to not shut up about it for the last month of my life.
> 
> All of my thanks to the wonderful [Lydia](http://boxesfullofsanasmiling.tumblr.com), [rumpelsnorcack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpelsnorcack/pseuds/rumpelsnorcack), and [Lise](http://mouthfulofbirds.tumblr.com/) for being the very best beta readers a writer could ever hope to have. Thank you also to the various people who have encouraged me and answered my numerous questions and basically endured my endless rambling about this fic with impressive patience. I could not have done this without you.
> 
> The current goal is to maintain a more or less weekly update schedule, but, uh, we'll see how that goes lol. Tags will be updated as things pop up in the fic, but the thing to know as far as warnings go is that this fic will engage with mental health issues, homophobia, and ableism in a similar-ish fashion to canon. I am neither Norwegian nor bipolar, so if I make any mistakes with regards to these issues please do not hesitate to let me know.
> 
> Title is pulled from "[for him.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrSFmsZV6OI)" by Troye Sivan.

**I. live my life in black and white**

_i._

Isak’s waiting outside in the yard when school lets out, his fingers tapping against the handlebars of his bike in a restless rhythm. Even grins when he sees him, and quickens his pace. He wonders how long Isak has been waiting there. The bell just rang a few minutes ago, but Isak’s standing there like he’s been ready to go for ages. When they reconvene, Isak is going to ask what took him so long. Even would bet actual money on it.

“What took you so long?” Isak says as Even approaches. Mentally, Even awards his imaginary bank a million dollars.

“Year tens are busy boys,” Even says as he wrangles his own bike from the rack. “You wouldn’t understand, you’re too young.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.” Still, Even can see how the corner of his mouth has twitched up, ever so slightly, which means he’s happy to see Even, too.

Even’s grin grows wider. “How was your first day of school?”

“Fine,” Isak says with a shrug. They start walking down the sidewalk back to their houses, bikes in tow. “Didn’t make me want to stab my eyeballs out with my own pencil, which was a nice surprise.”

“Great mental image, there,” Even says.

“Yeah, my number one goal in life is to preserve your mental purity,” Isak says, rolling his eyes again. Even wonders how many times he can get him to do that this afternoon. It’s an ongoing game he plays with himself. So far, his record for a day is twenty-seven.

“It should be,” Even says. “Otherwise, if I get dementia in my seventies, it’ll be all your fault.”

Isak scoffs. “That doesn’t even make any sense. And why do you think we’d know each other for that long?”

Frankly, it hadn’t occurred to Even to _not_ think that they would. Isak’s presence in his life, at this point, just seems like a given. The sky is blue, the earth revolves around the sun, and Even and Isak are best friends. It’s a law of the universe, written into the stars themselves. A constant across lives and worlds.

While saying that out loud would almost certainly result in another eye-roll from Isak, Even figures he’ll spare him this time around. If the boy rolls his eyes too much, they’re liable to fall right out of his skull.

“Race you back home,” Even says, and promptly pushes off on his bike.

“Hey!” Isak yells after him as he careens down the road. Even laughs at the sound, and he doesn’t slow down one bit.

-

“That really wasn’t fair,” Isak complains later. They’re lying in Even’s front yard, sprawled out under the sun and pretending they’re still recovering from the race that ended fifteen minutes ago. Even got home first, of course, and when Isak finally caught up he spent at least five minutes trying to argue why this didn’t count as one of their usual competitions. It was a valiant effort, if only because Isak is the kind of boy who has no idea when to give something up, but also doomed to fail from the start because when it comes to loopholes to ages-old agreements that might be exploited, Even has always been more than one step ahead of Isak. It had been a fairly given challenge, for one; for another, Isak had in fact raced after him, meaning he implicitly accepted the challenge; ergo, it was a proper competition, which meant that it had proper stakes. The usual ones being that the loser has to do anything the winner says, because seven year old Isak had no creativity, and nine year old Even was too busy gleefully imagining all the possibilities to come up with something better. Six years later, they still haven’t bothered to update the rules.

Which brings them back to today’s punishment. Even, out of the deep and endless kindness of his heart, only asked that they hang out out his place today, because Isak’s video game collection objectively sucks ass and also he doesn’t have a cool trampoline in _his_ backyard, now does he? Really, he thinks Isak is getting the better end of the deal.

“You,” Even says, “are the sorest loser in the world.”

Isak makes a wounded noise. “But I mean, we were in the middle of a conversation. Who just leaves in the middle of a _conversation_?”

“You should be used to it by now,” Even says. “I’m a free spirit and also an asshole. It’s a dangerous combination.”

“You’re not an asshole,” Isak says, frowning, as if Even just got something terribly wrong and it is Isak’s sworn duty to correct him.

Even has never heard someone say a not-insult so disapprovingly. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” Isak says. “You’re a smug bastard, maybe, but you’re not an asshole.”

Even laughs. “What’s the difference?”

“I don’t know,” Isak mumbles. “But you’re not.”

“Okay, sure.” Even hums to himself. “By the way, you never did tell me how school really went.”

“Yes, I did,” Isak says indignantly. “I told you it was fine.”

“Fine is not a real answer,” Even says, nudging Isak’s ankle with his toe.

Isak kicks Even lightly in the shin as his answer. “Is too.”

“Is not.” Even turns his head to look at Isak properly. It’s odd, he thinks. Isak usually smiles a lot more when they’re hanging out, even when Even is being as insufferable of a prick as he is today.

Isak frowns back at him. Just proving Even’s point, really. But for once he doesn’t feel all that victorious about getting something right about Isak.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” Isak says.

“Seriously,” Even says. “Are you okay?”

Something goes a little still in Isak’s expression, at that. His gaze flickers back to the sky above them, and he’s silent for a moment. There’s not really much Even can do when Isak gets like this, all lost in thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at. As many years as they’ve known each other, Even still doesn’t know how to tell him that there’s nothing in his head that could scare him away, if only he’d let Even see it.

“Just - kids saying dumb things,” Isak says. “It’s not important.”

Here it comes, that face that’s supposed to look blank, that voice that’s supposed to sound impassive. Isak hates looking weak, hates it when it’s obvious that something is getting at him, but to be fair Even doesn’t think many people would notice the tiny crease between his eyebrows, or the tension in his shoulders just visible enough to make things feel the slightest bit off. Even only notices because he notices everything about Isak.

He can’t read minds, though, nor can he control them. If Isak doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s just the way it’s going to have to be.

“You know,” Even says, “I got my mom to get your favorite cookies the last time we went to the store. It wasn’t easy, you know how she gets when we’re on a budget. Had to spend a whole two minutes building my case. But we have them.”

Isak casts a glance at him. There, right on the corner of his mouth. There’s that flicker of a smile Even’s been missing all day, eyes softening in a way that makes fondness curl in Even’s gut pleasantly. Objectively speaking, it’s not so easy to make him smile when he’s this adamant about being a stoic sadsack. It isn’t for most people, anyway. Even is not most people.

“Wow, two whole minutes of arguing,” Isak says. “That’s a new record for you.”

“Yeah, I know right,” Even says. He’s not sure if Isak thinks that’s too little or too much time. Either one would probably say a lot about Even as a person. “So you want some cookies?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Isak says. His smile grows a fraction.

Even grins in answer. “Now,” he says, pushing himself up, “I don’t know _why_ they’re your favorite. There’s no accounting for taste, I guess. But, you know, seeing as I’m your best friend and everything, you do have _some_ good taste, so I’ll let this one slide for now.”

Isak’s eyes roll up toward the sky. It’s only the third eye-roll of the afternoon. Even really needs to step up his game; can’t be losing his touch this early on in their relationship.

-

It takes another half hour to get Isak properly grinning again, but eventually Even does manage to make it happen. He should get some sort of prize for it, honestly. Isak’s smile, he’s convinced, is the secret to achieving world peace. Just show everyone a picture of it and soon they’ll feel joy, too, put down all their weapons and link hands and sing songs or whatever it is peaceful people do. Thus making Isak smile is for the greater good of the people, which makes Even the most selfless person in the world.

What does it, in the end, is the trampoline, and Even’s attempts to back flip on it.

“Oh my god,” Isak says from the ground, clutching his sides in helpless laughter. “This is the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Even unconcernedly lifts himself up from where he fell flat on his back - it’s okay, he’s an acrobat in training, everyone has growing pains - and starts jumping again for the sake of momentum. “You get up here and try, then.”

Isak wipes at his eyes. “Yeah? Just watch me, I’ll be the fucking champion of back flips.”

Even raises his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge? That sounds like a challenge.”

“Why the hell not.” Isak pulls himself up onto the trampoline. “I still need to get back at you for that dumb bike race.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Even teases. He jumps up and tries, once again, to twist backwards in the air. This time, he actually lands on his feet, but the fact that he does is so unexpected that he loses his balance and falls over as soon as it happens.

“Yeah, like you have room to talk,” Isak snorts.

“Do better,” Even says. “Come on, I’m waiting.”

Promptly, Isak jumps up and twists. Astonishingly, he falls not on his back, but flat on his face.

“Wow,” Even gasps through his fits of laughter. “Really, truly impressive. I’m so impressed right now.”

Isak rolls over on his back and groans. “Shut up. Just tell me what horrible punishment I have to suffer through already.”

With a dramatic sigh, Even lets himself fall on his back next to Isak. They’ve done that a lot today, probably. But it feels good to lie under the sun when the summer hasn’t yet turned to autumn, to soak up the warmth and pretend the daylight is the only thing that matters. To exist, for a while, and to pretend you don’t care that that’s all you’re doing.

“Loser isn’t allowed to be sad ever again,” Even says.

He expects Isak to protest the punishment. _That’s impossible_ , he might say. _That makes no sense._ He’d roll off the trampoline and claim he’d never hang out with Even again just for making such ridiculous demands. And Even would laugh and say, _it was only a joke_. Only a joke.

Even looks over at Isak, and he’s smiling, actually smiling. It’s the way he smiles when he thinks no one is looking, eyes unguarded and honest and open like a book. Except Even is looking. He always is.

“Yeah,” Isak says. “Okay.”

Well. Statistically speaking, Even was bound to get some things wrong about Isak eventually.

“Really?” Even says, not quite able to keep the surprise out of his voice. “Just like that, you’ll go along with it?”

“Why not?” Isak closes his eyes, but the smile is still there, all soft and pleased. “On a day like this, it almost sounds easy.”

And yeah, Even thinks, maybe he understands what Isak means by that, lying here under the pale sun and feeling miles away from the rest of the world. Maybe he doesn’t read minds; maybe he doesn’t have to.

-

That night, Even writes a long, unpunctuated ramble of an email to Isak about all the reasons why being in year ten is infinitely superior to being in year eight. The reasons include, but are not limited to, hotter people, teachers who actually somewhat know what they’re doing, and a new capacity for not giving a shit that only comes with being in your last year at a school. He includes quotes from three different Nas songs for good measure. He spends almost an hour and a half writing it up. It’s more time than he normally spends on an assignment for class.

Isak’s answer comes about ten minutes later. It’s just one sentence.

_You’re an idiot._

Then, in another twelve seconds:

_Thanks._

Even grins at that. Leave it to Isak, really. He’s probably the only person in the world who would look at that clusterfuck of a message and see it for what it really means, as cliched as it is.

_It gets better._

-

They hang out together after school a lot of days. That’s how it usually goes, how it's been for a long time. It started out because when Isak started school his parents asked the next door neighbor to look after their son on the way back home. Now it mostly just feels like the easy thing to do. Sometimes they’ll have other friends over, too. But having other people over involves figuring out logistics like where to leave the extra bikes, what to feed them, what to do. They don’t have to think that hard about hanging out with each other. It just happens.

They do their homework together a lot, too. Well, Isak does his homework, because he is a good and diligent student and gets kind of edgy when he’s not caught up with his assignments. Even has no such scruples, or if he did at some point they’ve long since faded. He used to spend their study sessions trying to distract Isak as much as he could, but now that their grades actually kind of matter for getting into high school he figures he should take it a little easy on the kid. So he doesn’t get up to his usual antics, doesn’t blast loud top forty music in Isak’s ears or write him dumb paper-airplane notes or doodle in the margins of his worksheets. Instead, he sits as quietly as he can next to Isak and pretends he’s focusing on his own work. It’s very boring. He thinks he deserves an award, or another million mental dollars, for being such a good friend.

Not that it stops him from trying to talk to Isak when they’re studying. “Aren’t you afraid you’re going to go blind?” Even asks.

Isak looks up from his textbook and frowns. “What?”

“Your face is - “ Even holds up his fingers in a pinching gesture. “ _\- this_ far away from your book.”

Isak snorts. “That’s not how eyes work.”

“If you say so.” Even leans back in his seat. “Then again, you’re such a huge nerd, you probably do know how eyes work.”

Isak kicks his ankle in retaliation. “And what are you doing over there, being lazy?”

“Hey, I take offense to that.” Even sweeps his hand grandly over his sheet of paper. “I’m being an artist.”

Isak glances down at the blank page. “Doing a great job so far.”

“I’m waiting for inspiration to strike.” Even raises his eyebrows. “Go on, then, do something hilarious. Or just straight up stupid, I’m not picky.”

“Fuck off,” Isak says. Still, Even’s eyes might be deceiving him, but he’s pretty sure the look on Isak’s face right now could qualify as a smile. Mission accomplished. Now, all he has to do is score an eye roll, and he can call it a day.

Before Isak leaves for home, Even hands him a slip of paper. “My finest masterpiece,” he says. It’s a hasty sketch of Isak holding a pair of eyeballs in both hands, looking into the camera and saying, _That’s not how eyes work._

Isak takes one look at it and grimaces. “Oh my god,” he says. “Why do you always draw me so ugly?”

Even shrugs. “I’m just showing it like it is.”

Isak rolls his eyes - checklist complete! - and sticks the drawing in his bag. “I’m throwing it out as soon as I get home,” he says.

If Isak really wanted to get rid of it, there’s a perfectly serviceable trash can right behind him. Even magnanimously decides not to point this out.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says instead. “Give it another few years, and soon my art will be worth millions of dollars. You could probably sell that scrap of paper on eBay for more money than you’ll make your whole lifetime.”

“Nope,” Isak says on his way out. “Tossing it immediately.”

That night, Even sends Isak a scanned version of another comic. In this one, Isak holds up a mirror to his face as he says, _Why do you always draw me so ugly?_ Isak sends him a gif of a middle aged man holding his middle finger up to the camera. Even sends back a gif from a Hayao Miyazaki film of a girl crying big fat tears. That’s how he spends most of the night, searching up the perfect response to Isak’s dumb gifs, only stopping when Isak falls asleep and the gif war ends abruptly. Oh well, Even thinks; there’s always tomorrow.

-

They never do anything that’s objectively all that exciting. Homework is quite possibly the most boring thing they could do together, but then there’s also the video games, the movie marathons, Isak’s hilariously awful TV shows. Isak has a basketball, but they don’t have a hoop, so sometimes they’ll toss that around uselessly. They are young teenage boys who don’t have jobs, and thus don’t have money except for when they beg their parents for allowances. The stunning lack of creativity that goes into their activities just goes without saying.

What doesn’t go without saying is this - Even doesn’t care that they don’t do anything exciting. They could be lying on their backs for hours watching the ceiling and he’d still rather be there than anywhere else in the world. As long as Isak is there, he will have a good time. This is a thing he knows to be true.

And this is why when Isak asks him, “Want to go to the pool?” He doesn’t point out how cold it is outside, or how tired he is, or how neither of them even own swimsuits. He just smiles, and goes to get his towel.

The community pool is indoors, at least. There’s not a lot of people around. Some middle aged men doing laps on the far end of the pool. A small child or two flapping around in the water trying to stay afloat. No one their age. They don’t try for anything that fancy, mostly just chase each other around the shallow end of the pool playing a raucous game of Marco Polo. They get some dirty looks from the other people there, but no one tells them to stop, and honestly, Even will take dirty looks any day if it means he gets to torment an Isak with closed eyes and a poor sense of direction.

“You’re really bad at this,” Even says after approximately the millionth time he tags Isak. “I regret not making this into a challenge.”

Isak pushes his wet bangs out of his forehead. “I’m obviously just going easy on you. If it were a _real_ thing you bet I’d beat the shit out of you.”

Even laughs. “Yeah, okay. And hell will freeze over any minute now.”

Isak rolls his eyes. Even’s not keeping count today, figures Isak deserves a day or two when Even isn’t actively trying to rile him up. Though it seems like he does that anyway, without really trying.

“I’m going to go swim laps,” Isak says.

That’s fine by Even. They don’t have to be talking to each other all the time. As Isak swims away, Even lets himself float in the water on his back, lets his eyes settle softly on the ceiling above him. If he treads his hands through the water slowly, he could probably stay like this for a long while. The water wraps his head with coolness, envelopes his ears and muffles his hearing in a way that could almost be discomfiting if he didn’t find it so relaxing. If he closes his eyes, the darkness and the strange silence makes him feel all alone. Not alone in a bad way. Not alone in a good way, either, really. Just alone. He just is.

The world is so big around him, but right here, like this, it almost feels like he’s the only thing that exists.

Though, of course, he could never forget that he isn’t. Somewhere in the distance, Isak exists too, swimming laps to his heart’s content.

He wonders about Isak, sometimes. Even asks him every day how his day was, and when they were younger Isak used to give these long, rambling answers to the question. _The teacher showed us this today, gave us this thing, this book, and I finished it and it was the best thing I’ve ever read, and also mom made me a really good sandwich for lunch and I hope she makes it for me tomorrow, and I didn’t think I’d have a good day in school today but I did, I totally did, and now I’m here, talking to you…_

Now, Even asks him how his day was, and Isak shrugs, and says, “Fine.” It’s a pretty run-of-the-mill answer, all things considered. Still, Even can’t help but wonder if it means anything. If things are happening in school Isak doesn’t want to talk about. Or maybe Isak’s changed, maybe he’s growing into his body and discovering he really is an inherently grumpy, taciturn person.

Or maybe Even’s changed. Maybe they’ve both changed at some point and Even just didn’t notice. The thought that there is something about Isak, about them, that could have slipped his attention disturbs him more than it should. It’s silly, the idea of outgrowing people, but the thought makes his heart clench all the same.

Could they outgrow each other? Is that a thing that’s possible? No, they’ve been friends for so long, the thought of any sort of distance between them is almost laughable, almost unthinkable, and maybe he should just stop thinking about it like that, maybe it doesn’t even matter if they don’t stay friends forever. In the end, everyone dies, don’t they? Everyone dies...

Something crashes into his body, and he straightens abruptly with a startled yell, sputtering and completely disoriented. It takes him a moment to realize that the something is Isak, who currently has his arms wrapped around Even’s chest, probably in an attempt to surprise the hell out of him.

Which worked. He feels half scared out of his own skin. “Jesus,” Even says, to Isak’s hysterical laughter. “Give a guy some warning.”

“I’m sorry,” Isak says, looking utterly remorseless as he lets go of Even’s sides. “You just looked so peaceful. Naturally, I had to ruin it.”

“Naturally.” Even makes his way to the edge of the pool and hauls himself out. “Should have been more careful. I’m pretty sure my scream could scare half these people shitless.”

“There’s no one here anymore,” Isak says with a snort. “No one to scare shitless.”

Even sweeps his gaze over the pool. Isak’s right, they’re the only ones left still. He wonders when that happened, wonders why he didn’t notice.

“Well, that’s good,” Even says. He reaches for his towel and attempts to dry off his hair.

Neither of them say anything for a bit. He looks back at Isak, and he’s kind of just standing there, fidgeting with his own fingers.

“Hey,” Isak says. “Is something wrong?”

Even sighs at himself. He usually likes to pride himself on his inscrutability, but Isak has always been the exception to his rule, just as Even is the exception to Isak's. A lot of things might change, the whole world might shift on its axis, but Even would do well to remember that this constant is probably not going anywhere any time soon.

“If something happened to you,” Even says.

Isak frowns. Clearly, he doesn’t like where this conversation is going.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“I mean - “ Even sighs again. Words are so fucking difficult sometimes. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. But - “ He spreads his hands out, a bit helplessly. “I’m here. Okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

He knows it’s a weird statement to make, considering it’s almost completely unprovoked. There’s no context to make these comments make more sense if you’re not privy to the inside of Even’s head, and if Even isn’t a mind-reader, Isak certainly isn’t, either. But still, there’s a selfish part of Even that wishes Isak will get it anyway.

Isak’s mouth is a little open, now. Perhaps out of surprise, or speechlessness. That’s fine, just as long as he understands.

“Okay?” Even presses.

Isak’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows.

“Okay,” he says.

Okay. Even can work with okay.

“Okay,” Even echoes. “Let’s go home.”

The ride back home is mostly silent. That’s okay, too. It’s a nice feeling, handlebars reliable under his fingers, Isak’s proximity a steady constant, the wind ruffling at Even’s hair gently and the water evaporating slowly but surely off his skin. The quiet just feels like another thing he can depend on.

When they get back, Isak follows Even into his house without complaining about it, which is a little unprecedented, but Even for once doesn’t feel like being enough of an ass to point that out. They drop their bags onto the floor of Even’s room, and Isak doesn’t complain about the mess the room is in, either. He doesn’t even complain about Even’s video games - though this is as it should be, because Even’s game collection is obviously better than Isak’s in every way conceivable - when Even nudges his Game Cube on with his toe and starts up Mario Kart. It’s a familiar rhythm, this silence between them. Even hardly has to think about it to understand.

Of course, the silence itself doesn’t stay for very long. Isak always gets ridiculously invested in video games when they play, and it only takes about one lap on the first course for him to start yelling.

“Come back here, you fucker,” Isak says loudly at the television. “What the fuck is this garbage!”

“Wow,” Even says, effortlessly dodging Isak’s green shells. “Creative insulting, calling me trash.”

“I don’t have time for coming up with insults when I’m trying to _kick your ass_ \- “

“So that’s two things you’re failing at, currently,” Even points out.

“Even, I swear to _fucking_ god - “

Even wins the next ten rounds. Out of the sheer goodness of his heart, he decides not to remind Isak of their long-running Challenge Clause.

“Ugh,” Isak groans, falling back onto the bed. “Would it kill you to take it easy on me for once, jesus.”

Even falls back onto the bed too, mostly so he can poke at Isak in the side. “You’d hate it if I actually took it easy on you, though. You’d call me big fancy words like condescending and pretentious.”

Isak makes a contrary noise. “I wouldn’t call you big fancy words. I’d call you normal words. I’d call you jerkface. Because that’s what you are.”

Even laughs. “Same difference.”

“Also, a win is a win. I’m not going to complain.” Isak pulls his phone out of his pocket and holds it above his face. Just by virtue of proximity, Even catches a glimpse of the screen, the text Isak is currently sending to his parents:

_Staying at Even’s tonight._

And that’s how Even knows Isak is staying the night.

It would be easy enough not to question it. There’s been plenty enough times he hasn’t in the past, times when Isak would show up at his house without prior warning, overnight bag slung over his shoulder and hands burrowed deep in his pockets. They both know Even’s parents don’t mind at all. His mother almost loves Isak like a second son. And it’s not often Isak does this, either. The last time he did it was over a year ago.

Still. Something niggles at the back of Even’s mind, something quietly but persistently suspicious. He’s never made assumptions, never been given enough information to make assumptions, but maybe it’s the worry from the past few weeks that makes him change things up a little this time around. And yeah, maybe the worry is irrational, perhaps even unnecessary. That doesn’t make it any less real.

“Is everything all right?” Even says.

“Yeah,” Isak says immediately. He turns his phone off and shoves it back into his pocket. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Even sighs inwardly, mostly at himself. He really should have seen that one coming.

“Okay,” he says. “Do you want pizza for dinner?”

Isak’s face bursts into a grin. Another thing Even should have seen coming, really. Still, it’s a pleasant enough surprise, and Even can’t find it in himself to complain.

-

All things considered, Even actually is pretty stoked about having Isak over for the night. Sometimes, they’ll plan sleepovers - not that it’s difficult to coordinate when their families know each other so well, but he knows his parents always appreciate the extra warning so they know how much breakfast to make in the morning - but they haven’t even done that in a while. Isak would never say, but Even has his suspicions that he thinks they’ve outgrown sleepovers, that sleepovers are for young boys who are too scared of the dark to sleep alone. And it’s true that Isak used to have to sleep with a nightlight back when they were barely old enough to walk to school on their own. If there really is such thing as outgrowing sleepovers, though, maybe that’s just one more reason not to grow old.

Sleepovers with Isak have always been exciting. It means he has someone who’ll actually stay up late watching movies with him, who’ll put up with his running commentary because he’s the kind of person who doesn’t know how to shut up during movies, who will put up with all his weird night time routine stuff and who will actually consent to staying up as late as Even usually does most nights. Doing things is just naturally more exciting when you have someone else to do them with. Especially when that person is someone as hilarious to be around as Isak.

It’s sometime past midnight, the both of them lying on the floor because they couldn’t be bothered to move to the bed just yet, laughing hysterically at some joke Even doesn’t even remember anymore, when he gets the itch in his brain that he sometimes has, the one that tingles all the way down to his fingers, that fills his heart and his lungs up with restlessness until the only thing he wants to do is move, somewhere, anywhere.

“You want to sneak out for a bit?” Even says, swinging up into a sitting position.

Isak blinks at him. “For real?”

“Uh, am I ever anything but a hundred percent serious?” Even stands up and roots around for his shoes.

“I hope you don’t actually expect me to answer that question,” Isak says, the insult coming so quick it almost sounds automatic. He pushes himself up, grimacing. “Where were you thinking?”

“I dunno. Let’s just get out of here.” Even runs a hand through his hair. “You sure you’re up for it?”

He can tell he’s won over Isak from the way he steels his shoulders and frowns that telltale frown that means he feels like his pride has just been attacked. The best way to get Isak to do what you want is to frame your desires as challenges.

“Of course I’m up for it,” Isak says. “Let’s do this.”

It isn’t actually that hard to sneak out. Even’s parents go to bed pretty early, and anyway even if they did catch them going out they probably wouldn’t care that much as long as they had their phones on them. They pull their bikes onto the streets, and they go. Even was serious, earlier. It doesn’t matter where they go. He wants to go there anyway.

“Where even is there to go after midnight, though,” Isak says. “Nothing interesting will be open. Nothing we’re old enough for, anyway.”

“Anything can be interesting if you try hard enough,” Even says sagely.

Isak snorts. “Yeah, okay, let me just wish algebra into being more interesting, I’m sure that’ll work out well.”

“That would honestly be the best superpower,” Even says. “If you just _believe_ in something hard enough - “

“But that’s not even a superpower, though, that’s just, like, being a god,” Isak says. “Humans can’t be gods.”

“Okay, but in a hypothetical world I would take wishing things into existence over, like, telepathy or something.”

“I’m pretty sure that would break the laws of physics,” Isak says, with all the confidence of someone who knows maybe one law of physics. “And anyway, telepathy is the best superpower, are you kidding me? I would kill to know what other people think, then if I was in an awkward situation I could know whether it was worth sticking around. ‘Okay, yeah, they already hate me, might as well just leave now’ kind of thing. Otherwise you have to depend on, like, body language. Who the fuck likes depending on _body language_?”

Even shrugs. “I dunno. I feel like it would get overwhelming. I mean, my own head is hard enough to deal with, let alone if I had to deal with everyone else’s.”

Isak sniffs. “I still think it’d be cool.”

“I’m sure you do.” Even squints at the far end of the street. “Hey, want to go play on a playground?”

“We are not _children_ ,” Isak says, affronted.

“We kind of are,” Even says, amused at how indignant Isak can get about being reminded what age he actually is. “Also, swings are the shit.”

“I think _you’re_ full of shit.” Still, he doesn’t slow his bike down, which Even considers a minor victory.

It’s not an impressive looking playground, all things considered. There’s a few slides, a couple of platforms. A sad looking two-person swing set. Even feels honor-bound to enjoy it because of his valiant defense of the place earlier, though, so he leaps onto one of the swings with a loud whoop. Isak trails after him, exasperatedly fond.

“I still don’t get the appeal,” Isak says. “This thing looks like it’s going to fall over any second.”

“Do you want to see who can swing the highest?” Even says. “Loser does what winner says?”

Even can’t remember the last time Isak said no in response to a question like that. He supposes that’s why he’s been so careful with it, as of late.

In lieu of an actual answer now, Isak climbs into the seat next to Even and promptly begins to swing his legs back and forth vigorously. Even doesn’t know why he bothers. It’s not a competition to see who can swing the fastest.

In the end, though, Even wins, yet again. Isak tries, of course, stubborn ass that he is, but Even is half a head taller than him and has long legs. There’s no way it could have ended differently, not unless Even took it easy on Isak. And they’ve already established he will never, ever go easy on him.

Part of him feels like he should feel guilty for going into this knowing he’d win. He doesn’t. He’s been trying to figure out ways to guarantee himself a win against Isak for six years now; old habits die hard.

Isak digs his heels into the ground, abruptly halting his motion. Even, on the other hand, lets himself take his time with it, and he closes his eyes as the back-and-forth slowly comes to an end.

“Okay, come on, lay it on me,” Isak says impatiently. “What do I have to do?”

Even is almost to a stop now. Still rocking to and fro, though, gently. He can feel the chains of the swing creaking under his fingers more so than he can hear them.

“Loser has to answer a question,” he says.

Isak blinks at him. “What?”

“Yeah. That’s it. I’ll ask you a question, and you answer.” Even cranes his head back toward the sky. It’s cloudless tonight, a bit hazy from all the light pollution. If he cupped his eyes with his hands, narrowed the scope of his vision until all that was left was the night, maybe he could see it for what it really is, an endless, gaping void. Let it swallow him up. But there are trees around, a few stars here and there, the occasional airplane. As far as voids go, it doesn’t feel particularly empty.

“A question?” Isak still sounds confused.

“You don’t even have to answer if you don’t like the question.” Even squints his eyes. He doesn’t know what he thought that would do; all that happens is the sky gets blurrier. “I’ll just give you a new one.”

“Okay,” Isak says, hesitantly. Even is phrasing it like a demand, but they both know it’s really more of a request. They’ve never done that before, never made it obvious they were giving each other the choice. Well, Even figures, there’s a first time for everything.

“Okay,” Even repeats. “Here’s my question.”

“The suspense is killing me,” Isak says flatly.

Even smiles, despite himself. He takes a breath.

“What are you thinking about right now?”

There’s no answer to that, for a few long moments. Even still has his eyes on the sky, so he doesn’t know what Isak’s face looks like, not that he’d have an easy time reading it in the dim light anyway. This is why he put in that last clause. He wants to know, of course, but Isak shouldn’t have to tell him if he doesn’t want to. He should be able to back out if that’s what he wants.

The silence, now, has gone on long enough that it almost feels uncomfortable, which is unprecedented for the two of them. Even wonders if he should pick a different question.

“Is it weird?” Isak says, abruptly. His voice sounds kind of small, though maybe that’s just the night breeze.

Even frowns. “Is what weird?”

“That we hang out so much,” Isak says.

It has literally never occurred to Even that it would be possible to find Isak’s presence in his life weird. He’s not sure where Isak could have even gotten that idea, not sure he really wants to know.

He shrugs. “We’ve been best friends since I was nine, and we live right next to each other. I think it’s only natural.”

“But we have, like, five different ways of communicating when we’re not together,” Isak points out.

“Yeah?” Even says, still not quite sure he understands. He takes a lot of pride in their system - Skype for general conversations, email for longer things and attachments, Facebook for links, and texting for the important, logistical stuff. Sometimes, they’ll have four different conversation threads going at once. It takes time and effort to come up with something like that. He wouldn’t even attempt it with just anyone.

“I don’t know,” Isak says, sounding pained, and also like he’s trying not to sound that way. “Do other people do that?”

He seems hesitant about saying something like that out loud, his breath stumbling over the words. But as soon as he says it, the statement pulls something out of the depths of Even’s mind, a thought, a feeling with blurred edges. It’s familiar, that feeling. Like understanding.

And just like that, Even gets it. All it took was one sentence. Sometimes, he impresses even himself.

“You’re my best friend, Isak,” Even says. “What does it matter what other people do?”

The words feel kind of inadequate, really, for all the things Even wants to say in response to the very idea that their friendship could ever be “weird”. But Even doesn’t know what those things are, doesn’t know where to begin to figure them out. So he just says this, knowing it’s not enough, and lets the rest of it swim around in his insides with no real place to go.

Isak sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”

“You can hang out with other people.” Even lets himself smile at the sky. “I won’t get jealous.”

He doesn’t need to look at Isak to know about the eye roll that’s currently happening. “Like I need your permission,” Isak says, but somehow things feel looser, now. Which is good, because Even’s never had to deal with long lasting tension between him and Isak before. If it persisted, he doesn’t think he’d know how to handle it.

“Okay,” he says. “We can go home now.”

“Wait, that’s it?” Isak says incredulously. “We went through all that effort just for a playground? A _playground_ ? Even, I thought you were better than this. I can’t _believe_ you right now - “

He complains about it pretty much all the way home. Even smiles through most of it. As much as he’d love to pretend otherwise just for the sake of annoying Isak, he doesn’t think he would ever mind Isak’s complaining, even if he does it all night. Isak’s complaining is the surest sign that all is well with the world. If only for now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is infectious, the grin on his face. Makes Even want to fall asleep even less, because if he falls asleep he’ll lose this feeling in his chest, light and loose and free, the kind of feeling you only get when whoever it is you care about most in the world is at peace with themselves. Then again, he expects he’ll feel it often enough this week, sleep or not. He hopes so, anyway. It can’t be that unattainable of a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: discussions of mental health issues involving ableist language and attitudes. If there's anything else I've missed, let me know.

_ ii. _

Even doesn’t see Isak’s parents a lot. If they hang out at Isak’s, which happens less frequently than one might think, they’re usually home alone. And Isak hasn’t talked about them in a long time.

It’s hard to think that something is strange when it’s been that way for so long, though. It’s not like it’s uncommon for people’s parents not to be around that often; both of his parents work, too. And some parts of his friendship with Isak - the random, unannounced sleepovers; the way he sometimes gets when he reads a notification on his phone, all quiet and still and strange; above all, the noticeable spaces Isak’s parents leave behind - have been such constants in their relationship it’s never really occurred to Even to question it.

Still, at some point during the semester, Even gets the vague impression that something related to the parents he rarely sees is wrong. His own parents don’t like to gossip, particularly about people they consider their friends, but from the hushed whispers at the dinner table he gathers what they’ve been going through - whatever it is - must be pretty serious. Even decides he mostly just feels sympathetic toward Isak about it. If there really was something wrong, Isak probably wouldn’t say anything about it. And he isn’t. The problem is, he wouldn’t say much if things  _ weren’t  _ wrong either, so it’s hard to know how to judge the situation. Even would push, has never worried too much about how far is too far because he trusts himself to know that limit or at least for Isak to tell him if he ever did reach it, except he knows that if he did, it would just make Isak shrink more inside himself, become even more unwilling to share whatever it is that’s on his mind. No, if he really wants to talk to Isak about it, Isak needs to come to him on his own time, by his own choice. The hard part is knowing Isak might not ever decide to do so.

It is for these reasons that Even finds himself unsurprised when his parents tell him they’ve been asked to let Isak stay with them for the week. Isak has never stayed over for more than a night, which means these circumstances have to be unusual in some way. Even doesn’t really care to know what they are, though. The more interesting part of the news is that it just so happens to be autumn break, which means no school, which means a week of hanging out with each other. A whole  _ week _ .

“It’s going to be like the best sleepover we’ve ever had,” Even says gleefully on the first day. “Except a thousand times better.” 

Isak came in about ten minutes ago, dumping his duffel bag unceremoniously on the floor and crashing onto Even’s bed like it was his. “I’ve colonized your bed,” he’d said calmly to Even’s vehement protests. “Your pillows are all mine.” Even was obliged to stage a revolt, and he did so by using his superior strength to wrestle back his duvet and a pillow. Isak clung onto the remaining pillow as if it were a lifeline, and Even started hitting him with his own pillow to get him to relinquish the last vestiges of his control. Thus ensued the most epic pillow fight history had ever seen. Even had strength and endurance on his side, but Isak’s sheer tenacity was more than enough to put up a fair fight. After one of Even’s pillowcases almost ripped, they declared a temporary amnesty, and now they’re here, lying on the bed and pretending they aren’t desperately trying to catch their breaths.

“It’s not a sleepover,” Isak says.

“Oh?” Even raises his eyebrows. “Then what would you call it? Vacation? Paradise?”

Isak sighs. Sometimes, the way he says things, the tension he carries in his shoulders makes Even forget he’s only supposed to be thirteen years old. Right now, though, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, his fingers tapping a fervent rhythm against the mattress, he has never looked younger.

“Don’t joke,” he says.

Even’s not sure what he’s done to merit this comment. He doesn’t think he meant what he said to be particularly funny. As with most other things he tells Isak, he just said the first thing that came to mind.

“Sorry,” he says anyway. “It’s going to be a good week though, right? That’s what I meant.”

Isak is silent for a long moment. Even wonders if he again unwittingly said something bad, though again he can’t imagine why. If he did something wrong, he wishes Isak would just tell him.

In a sudden burst of movement, Isak straightens up into a sitting position. He turns his head toward Even, and he grins, blindingly.

“It’s going to be so good,” he says.

It’s almost enough to make Even forget how weird things were just a few seconds ago. 

Almost.

-

Isak tries to convince Even to let him sleep on the floor, which is probably the most futile battle he has ever attempted to wage. If Isak thinks one of them needs to sleep on the floor, it might as well be Even, he already knows intimately well what it’s like to sleep in his own bed. Surprisingly, Isak is just as immovable about making Even sleep on the floor as Even is about the opposite. So, Even reasons, what’s so wrong about sharing a bed? It’s not like they’ve never done it before.

Isak protests against that, too - “How am I going to have any room when you take up all the space with your long ass legs? And you always hog the blanket, you selfish bastard” - but the longer they argue about it the weaker his arguments get. There is nothing that could convince Even that Isak would find the floor more comfortable than an actual memory foam mattress, blankets or not, and Even can be very persuasive when he believes a cause is worth fighting for. After Even offers to give Isak a whole blanket of his own to cocoon up in, Isak has no choice but to give in. As they both knew he would. Honestly, Even doesn’t know why Isak bothers trying anymore.

“Great, so we can finally sleep now,” Even says, flopping back onto the bed.

Isak lets himself fall too. His arm sprawls carelessly across Even’s chest. “Really?” he says. “You, going to bed this early? Is this the real life?”

“Yeah, all that fighting wore me out.” Even turns toward the wall, pretending to snore.

Isak punches him lightly in the back. “That wasn’t fighting.”

“No?” Even rolls over again to face Isak. “What was it, then?”

“We were negotiating,” Isak says, matter-of-factly.

Even snorts. “Yeah, negotiating who’s the bigger asshole, maybe.”

“It’s you,” Isak says. “It’s always you.”

“Thought you said I wasn’t an asshole,” Even says, clutching at his chest as if wounded.

“Being an asshole depends on context,” Isak says. “In this case, you wouldn’t let me sleep on your floor, so you’re the bigger asshole.”

“What the fuck,” Even laughs. “You wouldn’t let me sleep on the floor, either. This is such a double standard.”

“That’s different,” Isak says, smiling widely like the little shit he is. “In my case, I was being a perfect gentleman. In your case, you were just being a jerk.”

“Wow, amazing explanation. Suddenly I understand everything.”

“You should,” Isak says. “You absolutely should.”

It is infectious, the grin on his face. Makes Even want to fall asleep even less, because if he falls asleep he’ll lose this feeling in his chest, light and loose and free, the kind of feeling you only get when whoever it is you care about most in the world is at peace with themselves. Then again, he expects he’ll feel it often enough this week, sleep or not. He hopes so, anyway. It can’t be that unattainable of a dream.

-

In the morning, Isak shuffles into the kitchen, bleary-eyed.

“The fuck is this?” he mumbles.

Even looks up from the stove, currently surrounded by about a dozen plates of eggs prepared in just as many ways. “I’m experimenting,” he says. “So far, I think I like the eggs with sour cream the best. Your cereal’s in the right cabinet, by the way.”

“No,” Isak says. “I meant this shit.”

Even glances back at Isak, who holds up a scrap piece of paper in the air as accusingly as he can when he’s also in the midst of a spectacular yawn.

“Oh.” Even grins. “You know exactly what it is.”

“‘Being an asshole depends on context’?” Isak demands. The effect is somewhat undercut by the sleepy way his words stumble out of his mouth. Even kindly does not point this out. “You really had to draw a comic based on that?”

“Yup,” Even says. “I would die if I didn’t get to draw a comic based on that.”

“Fuck off,” Isak says, rolling his eyes. A new record for earliest in the day, Even thinks. “You’re just proving my point.”

Even shrugs. Be that as it may. “Do you want eggs?”

Isak trudges over to the table and sits down. Even does not miss the surreptitious way he slips the comic into his pocket.

“Well, obviously,” Isak says.

Even beams. So maybe he did already know the answer to that one. It goes without saying, but Even doesn’t think he should be blamed for wanting to say it, anyway.

-

“So,” Even says, “what do you want to do today?”

Isak pushes his empty plate away so he can lean forward on his elbows. He turns his face to the window, the pale morning light slanting gently onto his cheekbones. He looks serious, as he so often has in the last few months since school started. Even isn’t quite sure he’s used to it yet. When they’d first met, seven year old Isak had a chronic problem of laughing at practically everything. It’d been their first inside joke. “Sunshine Isak,” Even used to call him, but it never bothered him, just made him smile wider.

Even hasn’t used that nickname in years, and he no longer knows how Isak would react if he did.

Maybe he should start getting used to this, this new side of Isak. It would be preposterous of him to expect people to stay the same over the course of their lives. People are people, not cartoon characters.

Isak takes in a breath.

“Let’s not stay in today,” Isak says.

Even raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Isak slaps his palms down on the table and stands. “We could even go back to that dumb playground of yours. Why not?”

“Playgrounds aren’t dumb,” Even says. “They are important public spaces for the youth of our nation, and also your face is dumb.”

Isak rolls his eyes as his answer, and says nothing else. Some things, at least, never change.

-

In the end, they don’t go to the playground. Isak insists they check out the nearby skate park instead, and Even doesn’t have any better ideas to begin with. So that’s where they go.

At first, Even thinks it’s a chance for Isak to hang out with people he knows from school. When they get there, though, it’s clear Isak doesn’t actually know any of the boys there, or at least not well enough to try to talk to any of them. Even and Isak stand around the rim uncertainly as boys on skateboards whiz past and yell things at each other that are difficult to make out. If Even had to guess, they’re probably something along the lines of vaguely sexist insults. Then again, for all he knows, adolescent skater boys could be the most sensitive people to gender issues there are. He can’t be hasty in his judgment.

Isak stands with his hands shoved deeply in his pockets. He looks over at the other boys occasionally in a way that is probably supposed to be secretive, but of course Even can’t help but notice. He wonders if Isak would feel more comfortable if he didn’t feel obligated to stick close to Even. Though maybe Even’s presence, or lack thereof, wouldn’t really make much of a difference.

Either way, it takes about fifteen minutes of watching a bunch of adolescents pretend to be cool for Even to give up. If he’d known how boring this would be, he probably would have just stayed at home. Or who knows, maybe he wouldn’t. The idea of making Isak do anything on his own is probably not the best he’s ever had.

“Do you want to head home soon?” Even says.

“No,” Isak says, a little defensively.

Even sighs. “Look, we don’t even have boards,” he says.

Isak’s shoulders deflate a little. Immediately, Even regrets saying it.

“If we go home, you could try to kick my ass at Super Smash Bros,” he offers in an attempt to fix things. “I mean, good fucking luck, but.”

Isak glances at him. The comment is at least enough to surprise an intrigued smile out of him. Small victories, Even supposes.

“Only if you don’t play as Sheik,” Isak says.

Even groans. “I knew you were going to say that. How did I know you were going to say that?”

Isak grins. Even realizes, with a jolt, that it’s just about his first of the day. “I told you, I’ll take a win no matter what,” he says. “Even if it means handicapping the shit out of you.”

“I can promise you that’s not a handicap,” Even says. “You’re just being annoying.”

Isak starts walking back toward their bikes. “Whatever,” he calls over his shoulder. “We’ll see if you’ll be saying the same thing when I’m crushing your ass.”

-

About twenty minutes later, Even throws his controller down. “See?” He says, grinning. “Annoying.”

Isak covers his face with his hands. “Fuck, this counts as a challenge, doesn’t it?”

“Yup,” Even says. “Come on, try to argue your way out of it. Just try.”

“Ugh, no thanks.” Isak peers at Even through a crack in his fingers. “What’s it going to be?”

This gives Even some pause. Usually, he goes into a challenge knowing exactly what he’s going to make Isak do. For some reason, though, it hadn’t occurred to him to do that this time around. He supposes he was too busy thinking about other things.

“Give me some time,” he says. “I’ll come up with something.”

-

“I’ve got it!” Even says triumphantly. “I’ll make you a cheese toastie and put on a shitton of spices and then you have to eat it like the loser you are.”

They’re in the aisle with the spices at the grocery store, currently, because at some point Even decided they needed as much junk food as their pitiful allowances would allow them. Though between the two of them, they probably have enough cash to buy maybe one and a half bags of chips. No matter; living vicariously off of the things they could be eating if they were rich enough is still a great way to spend time, in Even’s professional opinion.

“Do you have spices?” Isak says doubtfully. “Do you even have money for spices?”

“Oh, damn,” Even says. “Yeah, after the incident with the chicken last year mom’s banned me from the spice cabinet.”

“The incident with the chicken last year,” Isak repeats.

Even claps him on the shoulder. “A story for another time,” he says. “Objectively speaking, though, a well-spiced cheese toastie can’t be all that bad. Hardly sounds like a punishment to me. I bet you’d love it if I used - “ he reaches out and plucks a random spice jar from the shelf “ - cardamom?”

“Wow, you’re kidding,” Isak says. “That can’t be a real thing.”

“Right there on the package,” Even says, tapping the plastic.

Isak peers at it. “Okay, actually, I changed my mind, cheese toasties should have a shitton of this stuff piled on,” Isak says.

Even considers this. “You think so?”

“Carda- _ mom _ ,” Isak says for emphasis, waggling his eyebrows.

Even bursts out laughing. “Do that again, holy shit,” he says. “For my sake.”

“Nah, that was a once in a lifetime opportunity,” Isak says, unconcernedly taking the cardamom from Even’s grip and placing it back on the shelf. “Can we get cookies while we’re here?”

“You and your damn cookies,” Even says, shaking his head.

“Well, actually, I was  _ going  _ to suggest chocolate chip, since those just happen to be your favorite,” Isak says, “but since you’re being a huge jerk I’m just going to spend all my money on  _ my _ cookies.”

“Oh, no,” Even gasps, bringing his hand to his forehead and pretending to collapse on Isak. “Whatever shall I do without chocolate chip cookies? How will I  _ live _ ?”

Isak shoves him off with a grimace. “Why are you like this? Who even are you?”

“You love me,” Even says, slinging an arm around Isak’s shoulder with a grin.

Isak doesn’t stiffen, per se, but for half a second, something flashes across his face, something Even is sure was not a smile. He can’t really tell what it was, honestly, but the sight of it is enough for him to let his arm drop to his side. He tries to be good at boundaries, he really does. Apparently, he’s not good enough yet. He should be more careful in the future.

In another second, though, Isak’s smiling. His face changed so quickly it almost gives Even some pause - did he imagine what just happened? - except Isak says, “You wish,” and, well, Even can’t exactly back down from something like that, can he?

“I don’t have to,” Even says. “It’s just true.”

Isak rolls his eyes, and says nothing. Even doesn’t read too much into it, the silence. After all, it’s not like he’s trying to deny it, either.

-

In the end, Isak buys chocolate chip cookies for Even, anyway.

He shoves the box at him unceremoniously as they leave the store. Even takes it, and smiles.

-

That night in bed, Even presses his toes against Isak’s legs. “You want to hear about the chicken?”

“I don’t want to hear about the damn chicken,” Isak grumbles. “And fuck off, why do your feet have to be so cold, socks were invented for a reason.”

“All the better to annoy the shit out of you with,” Even says.

Isak shoves his hand into Even’s face. “Good bye now.”

“Are you kicking me out of my own bed?” Even says, pretending to be appalled. “Isak Valtersen, have you no  _ respect _ ? The  _ audacity _ . I cannot  _ believe _ \- “

This time, Isak actually does push him off the mattress. Even lands hard on his hip, but he can hardly feel it through the force of his own laughter.

-

The next morning, Isak is holding three scraps of paper.

“Seriously?” He demands. “Did you seriously have to do this?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Even says very seriously. He is definitely not laughing. Not in the slightest.

“‘Carda- _ mom _ ’, ‘socks were invented for a reason’, and ‘I don’t want to hear about the damn chicken’,” Isak reads out. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Even squints at the scribbled comics as if deep in thought.

“I think,” he says, “that whoever drew those comics is an amazing and very socially conscious artist. Such bold political statements.”

Isak reaches behind him and throws a towel at his head. “I hate you.”

Even catches the towel out of the air, laughing. “No, you don’t,” Even says.

Isak sighs a resigned sigh. “I’m taking a shower now,” he says. “If I come back and find more comics on my pillow, I swear to god - “

“It’s not your pillow, it’s mine,” Even points out.

Isak waves his hand. “Yeah, whatever, fuck you too and all that.”

He didn’t deny it this time, either.

-

“I figured it out,” Even says, after Isak is freshly showered and dressed. “I’m going to make you watch a Baz Luhrmann movie tonight.”

Isak stares at him. “Baz Luhrmann? Is he one of those pretentious hipster nerds you hero worship?”

Even makes an offended noise. “Baz Luhrmann is a visionary and a genius,” he says. “Also, you still owe me a punishment.”

“Ugh, but I don’t want to watch your pretentious hipster nerd movies,” Isak says with a groan. “Last time was bad enough with - what was it, Gina?”

“Juno,” Even says patiently. “Also, you cried at the end. No one even died.”

“Did not,” Isak says with all the denial of someone who totally did cry at the end of Juno. He thinks about it for a moment, then adds, defensively, “The music was trash.”

“I’m sure it was.” Even crosses his arms. “Let me show you Romeo + Juliet, I promise you you’ll like it.”

Isak frowns. “What, no. That sounds like a girly movie.”

“And what’s wrong with girly movies?” Even says, raising his eyebrows.

“Nothing, I just - “ 

Isak’s phone starts vibrating, then, mid-sentence. He pulls it out of his pocket. Whatever he sees on the screen must not be good, because his face does this falling thing that’s a bit hard to watch. Even has never seen it do that so quickly and so thoroughly, one second half-annoyed, half-amused smile playing at the corner of his lips, the next his mouth a completely down-turned line.

Even bites his lip. Should he ask? Probably not.

“Fine,” he says. “Not tonight. But don’t think I’m going to forget your punishment that easily.”

Isak slips his phone into his pocket and turns around to grab his bag. He starts rummaging through it, for what Even can’t tell.

“I know you won’t,” Isak says.

For a second, Even contemplates asking if he can hug Isak. It’ll seem unprovoked, though. Isak would probably say no.

So Even doesn’t say anything at all. They can both save their breaths for something more important.

-

“I can’t sleep,” Even says.

It’s a little after midnight. They’re curled up in bed, or at least, Even is, burrowing into the duvet as thoroughly as he can. Isak’s legs are only half covered by it. Even’s almost surprised he hasn’t complained about it yet.

“When can you ever?” Isak answers. But he’s not trying to sleep now, either. He’s got his nose buried in his phone, scrolling through something Even can’t see. In the dark, the glow of the screen makes his skin look sickly pale, like a ghost.

“What do normal people do at sleepovers?” Even says. “Don’t they stay up talking shit about people?”

“I told you, it’s not a sleepover,” Isak says. “Also, you’re not normal people.”

“Neither are you,” Even reminds him. “Normal people wouldn’t actively try to kill their eyeballs with their cell phone screens.”

“Fuck you,” Isak says absently. Even wonders what it is he’s doing on his phone that’s so important. Would it be uncalled for him to knock it out of his hand and demand Isak pay attention to him instead? Yeah, probably.

Still. It’s a special kind of boring to be unable to sleep when the person next to you won’t even talk to you.

“Should we talk about something?” Even says. “Let’s talk about something.”

“God, like what?” Isak says. “Girls?”

It was probably meant to be a casual comment, judging from the expressionlessness of his face and the smoothness of his voice. Even doesn’t miss the breath Isak took in before saying that last word, though. It was short and it was quiet, but it was there nonetheless.

He thinks about that for a moment, turns the memory of the sound around in his head, pokes at it and wonders what it means.

“Do you want to talk about girls?” Even says after a while.

There’s a tiny crease between Isak’s eyebrows. You might not even notice it if you weren’t looking closely enough.

“No,” he says.

There’s tension in his shoulders, and his fingers are tight around his phone. Even in the dark, Even can tell that much.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s not talk about girls.”

Isak looks up from his phone to stare at him. “Really?”

Even finds himself surprised at Isak’s surprise. He honestly didn’t think what he said is that big of a deal. The way Isak’s face looks now, though, you’d almost think Even just said something life-changing.

“Why do you look so shocked?” Even says, genuinely curious at the answer. “Do you really think I’m the kind of person who’d make you talk about something you don’t want to talk about? I’d like to think I’m not that much of an asshole.”

Isak glances down again. “You’re not an asshole,” he says.

It might just be the dark, but Even could almost swear he sees the tension in his shoulders relax, just a little.

“Okay,” Even says. “I believe you.”

-

The next morning’s comic -  _ you’re not normal people _ .

This time, Isak throws a shoe at him.

-

Even in the midst of a school break, Isak apparently doesn’t like to let up on the studying. Even has no homework he wants to do, so he sits at their usual table pushing around a bunch of pencils across the blank piece of paper in front of him. Trying to draw while Isak is studying almost always proves to be a fruitless endeavor. His best source of inspiration is Isak, and how can he be inspired by Isak when Isak is being all quiet and dutiful and a genuinely good hard-working student?

“What about your punishment is you have to streak to the nearest McDonald’s?” Even says, mostly just to see what Isak would say.

Isak stares at him. “Do you actually want me to die?” he says.

Even pushes a pencil to the other edge of the table. “How would you die from that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, catching pneumonia? Getting beat up by a bunch of thugs?”

“Okay, yeah,” Even concedes. “I guess punishments aren’t supposed to be a matter of life or death.”

Isak’s phone buzzes. Isak looks at it like if he glares hard enough, it might stop vibrating. It doesn’t, not for a solid twenty seconds. When it finally does stop, he lets out a sigh, the smallest sound. The phone stays face down on the surface of the table.

Even looks down at his paper. Maybe he doesn’t have to draw anything. Maybe he can just cover the sheet with words, all the words in his head, all the words he can’t say out loud, all the words Isak can’t, either. He wonders if he could actually turn that into something coherent. Probably not. Words that come from your brain hardly ever do what you say.

-

By the end of week, Even still hasn’t figured out a good punishment. Which is odd, because usually tormenting Isak is his favorite pastime. Surely he should have come up with something by now.

Except…

Except this week Isak’s been - strange. On edge. Off, somehow. Not always. Not enough for Even to actually ask about it. But definitely enough for him to notice.

Is it any wonder, then, that Even struggles to think of a punishment when Isak is like this? How can he try to kick Isak when he’s already down? He wants to be careful around him, but he doesn’t even know what that really means. He’s never had to be careful around Isak before, never had to put too much thought into the things he said. He’s not sure he likes the feeling.

_ Is it me? _ He wants to ask.  _ Is it something I did? Is it something I am? _

That Even can’t find the answers to these questions is probably what perturbs him most of all. It had never occurred to him that there might come a time he wouldn’t know Isak well enough  _ not _ to answer questions like these. He supposes there must be a first time for everything.

-

When they climb into bed on the last night, Isak is quiet. Not that Even wasn’t expecting it, considering how weird things have been. Isak hasn’t even checked his phone in a solid three hours, which is in itself a cause for concern. But just because Even expected it doesn’t mean it doesn’t make him sad, anyway.

He tries to convince himself Isak’s just bummed out because they have to go back to school tomorrow. Because he misses his parents. Because he’s upset the week is about to be over, even. Somehow, his efforts don’t work that well.

“You know,” Even says to the ceiling, “it’s going to be weird sleeping here tomorrow.”

“What do you mean? You sleep here every night.” Even gets the sense Isak means to say the words sarcastically, but he sounds so worn out it doesn’t quite come across right.

“Yeah, but I only just got used to having you here, too,” Even says.

“Oh,” Isak says.

“Yeah, Even says. “It was hard. You’re so smelly, I’ve had such trouble sleeping all week. But I managed it in the end.”

“Wow, fuck you.” Again, though, his heart just doesn’t sound into it.

“Seriously, though,” Even says. “I know it’s ridiculous when we see each other every day, but I’m going to miss you tomorrow night. I am.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Isak whispers.

_ But why? _ Even wants to ask. What’s so bad about saying things like that? What’s so bad about knowing how much he appreciates Isak in his life, and wanting other people to know it too? What is so wrong with that?

He knows Isak’s not much of a show-off. Isak is the kind of boy who keeps things inside himself, or who wants to do that, anyway, wants to think it’s possible to hide your heart from the world even when everything inside it feels too big. Recently, this has become even more true, and Even doesn’t know what changed, doesn’t know if he should try to figure it out. He just knows he never learned how to build shields around his own heart, at least not in the way Isak wants to.

Maybe if it would make Isak feel better, Even might try to hold himself back, too, but the truth is, he just doesn’t know how.

“What, you don’t think I mean it?” he says out loud, lightly. With luck, the question will come across as a joke.

Isak doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile.

“I know you do,” he says. “It’s just - there’s going to be a lot of times we won’t get to see each other. Won’t it be better if you don’t miss me all the time? Won’t it be easier?”

“What do you mean?” Even says, not sure he understands. The words discomfit him for some reason, settling strangely under his skin. He shifts positions in a vain attempt to make the weird feeling go away.

“I mean - “ Isak closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath. “It hurts to miss someone. That’s all.”

“Do you miss anyone?” Even says, tentatively, suddenly and irrationally afraid of the answer.

“Yeah,” Isak says. His voice wavers on the syllable. “I don’t know if I should.”

There it is, at last. A hint. It’s a small one, but it’s there, nevertheless, and Even’s brain wastes no time in chasing after it for the piece of the conversation he was missing this whole time.

His parents. Isak is talking about his parents.

The realization sends the most inexplicable relief tingling through Even’s veins, down to his toes, down to the very tips of his fingers. Maybe he should feel guilty about it. He finds that he doesn’t.

“Why wouldn’t you miss them?” Even says. His heart is thudding in his chest, trying to recover from the emotional whiplash. He’s so dizzyingly giddy he almost misses what Isak says next.

“You know why I had to stay over this week, right?”

Isak’s voice is bitter, now, almost uncharacteristically so. It occurs to Even that this, right here, is a part of Isak’s life he doesn’t have access to, mostly because he doesn’t actually have any idea what it is he’s missing.

“No,” Even says honestly. “I actually don’t.”

Isak presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. For one terrifying second, Even thinks he might be crying. Even’s tempted to reach out in some attempt to comfort him, pat him on the shoulder or squeeze his hand or just - just something, anything. Before he can try, though, Isak takes his hands away, and the corners of his eyes are dry.

“My mom lost her shit a week ago,” Isak says, voice steady. “I mean, actually lost her shit. Had some type of nervous breakdown or whatever the fuck it was. Dad had to take her to the hospital, decided it would be easier to deal with if I wasn’t around. That’s why I’m staying here.”

There’s a lot of things about that statement that are horrible, but mostly Even’s just hung up on the way Isak says it. He’s so clearly trying to be dispassionate about it, but the fact that Even can tell that’s what he’s trying to do is evidence in itself of how badly he’s failing.

“Isak, I had no idea,” Even says. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no point, though, is there?” Isak says. His eyes are fixed above him, now, but Even has the feeling he’s not looking at the ceiling, not really. He’s probably not looking at anything at all.

Even swallows. “No point to what?”

“I mean - “ Isak takes in a vicious breath. “Everything’s going to shit, and they just - they want to pretend everything’s normal, but it’s not. It’s  _ not _ .”

“As long as you’re still together, though…”

“No, fuck that,” Isak says, vehemently. “Fuck that. I’m allowed to be upset.”

Yeah, Even thinks, of course he is. Of course Isak is allowed to feel things. But god, it’s tearing at something unnameable inside Even to see Isak like this, fists clenched at his sides and bottom lip trembling even though he knows Isak wants them both to pretend that it’s not. Isak threatening to shake apart with the force of his own unhappiness. That’s what’s not normal about this situation. That’s what’s so horribly wrong about it all.

“She’s been like that for a while,” Isak says. “I don’t think she’s going to get better any time soon.”

Even doesn’t know about any of that, either, how bad it’s been, what kind of things his parents might be doing that has Isak this upset. It must be something really terrible.

“God, I just - “ Isak rubs at his eyes again, with both of his fists. It’s an oddly boyish gesture. Even knows Isak has been trying not to be a boy, to distance himself from childhood and to pretend he knows what it’s like to be a man. Even wonders how Isak would react if he pointed out he’s still just a kid, and it shows.

“Just what?” Even says.

“I just wish my mom wasn’t crazy,” Isak says. “It would be easier, wouldn’t it? It would be easier.”

Distantly, as if Even is watching someone else have this thought, it occurs to him that there are perhaps several things that are unfair about this statement, least of all describing Isak’s mom as ‘crazy’. He wonders what would happen if he tried to argue with Isak on this. It probably wouldn’t go over so well.

God. And Even had no idea this was happening this entire time. His heart aches a little for all the pain Isak never told him about. He’s never seen him this upset, not in all the years they’ve known each other. Somehow, that seems significant.

“I don’t know,” Even says. “We’ve got to live with it now, though. That’s just the way it is.”

He knows the words won’t be particularly comforting. He’s never considered himself all that good at comfort. Saying the first thing that comes to mind, that’s what he’s good at. At least Isak can count on him to be genuine.

And maybe that is something Isak recognizes, because he doesn’t get as defensive at the words as he might. Even thinks he might feel him relax, just a little.

“Yeah,” Isak says. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

For a moment, Even thinks that’s the end of it. It only takes a few seconds, though, for Isak to say, haltingly -

“Forget I said anything, okay?”

“What?” Even says. The words were so quiet he’s not sure he heard them right.

“It’s all just - stupid,” Isak mumbles. “Not worth ranting about. I shouldn’t have - just forget it.”

Somehow, Even doesn’t think he will. This feels like the kind of thing that might stay with him for the rest of his life, the sight and sound and feeling of what it’s like for Isak Valtersen to be really, truly hurt by someone he loves. But he doesn’t tell him that. He doesn’t think it would help Isak if he heard something like that. He reaches out, brushing his knuckles against Isak’s, and instead lets the silence fill up his lungs with the things he wishes he knew how to say out loud.

-

The ride to school the next day is quiet. As they lock their bikes up on the rack, Even speaks.

“I finally came up with the punishment,” he says. “From last week’s challenge.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. The circles are dark under his eyes.

“Loser has to have a good day at school today,” Even says.

Isak snorts. It worked, though. Even got him to laugh.

“No promises,” Isak says.

“Yes, promises,” Even insists. “That’s the whole point of a punishment.”

“If you say so.” Isak adjusts the straps of his bag on his shoulders and turns toward the school door. “I’ll tell you how it goes later.”

Even watches him as he goes. Though he’s facing away from him, Even can still see the exhaustion in his shoulders, the tightness of his hands around the straps of his bag. What he wouldn’t give to know how to relieve whatever burden Isak is carrying, if only for a little while. But then, the only person who can put it down is Isak.

All Even can hope for, really, is that he’ll remember what he said. That’s probably all anyone can hope for in the end.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both of his parents are home, which is odd but not in itself cause to be worried. He goes up to his room, showers, does his homework like a good student, and when he comes back downstairs they’re waiting for him in the living room. That, really, is his first proper sign that something is wrong.

_ iii. _

Today, Even is the one who is waiting for Isak outside their school, and he is a good person, but he is not so good that he will not take every opportunity available to rub it into Isak’s face on the ride home.

“My god,” Even gasps. “You were so late today, Isak. A whole minute late. I’m shocked. I am  _ appalled _ .”

“Ugh, are you serious,” Isak groans. “You literally have, like, zero moral high ground.”

“Right, and a  _ whole minute _ is very offensive, exactly, this is exactly my point,” Even says.

“What  _ is  _ your point?” Isak says. The small smile on the corner of his lips betrays him. He’s totally amused by this conversation, the bastard. “All I can tell is that you’re being a jerk. Not that that’s anything new.”

“So you know how right now you’re thinking it’s totally unfair to be criticized for being late when we’re still leaving school less than five minutes after it ended?” Even says. “Now, imagine this year ten who, poor guy, hears that same line of reasoning  _ every single day _ \- “

“I don’t know who this year ten is,” Isak says, “but he sounds like a dick.”

Even shrugs. “He might be. He also doesn’t care.”

“Maybe he should, then he’d have more friends,” Isak says.

Even’s hand flies to his chest. “That hurts, Isak. That cuts me really deep.”

“I’m sure it does.” Isak raises his eyebrows. “Seriously, though. I came out into the yard and I thought I was in an alternate dimension or something. You actually beating me to our bikes for once? I swear this is the only time it’s ever going to happen.”

“Yeah, probably. Universe just decided to shake things up a little today, I guess.” Even shimmies his shoulders.

Isak coughs out a scandalized laugh. “Oh my god, do that again. Please. Preferably for long enough so I can get it on camera.”

“As much as I’d love to be the thing that makes your instagram go viral, I think I’ll pass,” Even says. They turn onto their street. “Want to come over?”

“Nah,” Isak says. “Got a test I really need to study for. Tomorrow, though, definitely.”

It’s the first afternoon in a long while they haven’t hung out together. Even decides he’s not upset about it, though it’ll be strange trying to figure out what to do on his own, he’s so used to thinking about things in terms of “him and me”. Maybe he can do his homework for a change, add on to the list of things that make this day unlike any other.

Outwardly, Even grins. “I’m holding you to that,” he says. Like that, it almost sounds like a promise of its own.

-

Both of his parents are home, which is odd but not in itself cause to be worried. He goes up to his room, showers, does his homework like a good student, and when he comes back downstairs they’re waiting for him in the living room. That, really, is his first proper sign that something is wrong.

Their faces are gentle, and serious; his second sign.

When they start talking, they dance around the issue the way they always do with things they think might upset him, lots of “Well, you know...” and “This might be a little shocking, so…” and “We’re sorry, but…” 

The third sign.

He sits through it patiently. Whatever it is can’t be a matter of life or death, or else they would have just said it already. Eventually, his mother takes a breath, and he knows it’s coming.

_ Your father is being transferred. _

_ An important job opportunity, and there’s no time to waste. _

_ We’re moving out of Oslo by the end of the year. _

And he understands, really, he does, why they were so careful about bringing it up in the first place. But they were wrong about how he was going to react. He’s not upset. Far from it.

In fact, he feels nothing at all.

-

It’s only later, hour and a half past midnight, fingers clutching at his duvet and unblinking eyes staring at the faraway ceiling, that it crashes into him. It leaves him breathless, leaves his hands trembling at his sides and heat prickling insistently, infuriatingly, behind his eyelids. It comes all at once, all the implications of moving away to a place he’s never been to, everything that it means. It crushes him under the weight of everything he never said, and everything he never did. It drowns him.

No, he’s not upset. This is beyond sadness, this emptiness in his heart, the wasteland of his insides. This is apocalyptic. This is devastation.

Dimly, Even is aware that moving away from the only place you’ve known your whole life isn’t the end of the world, not a matter of life or death at all. People do it all the time. In fact, you’re expected to, sooner or later. Just so happens in this life, in this universe, it’s sooner.

This isn’t the end of the world, but behind his closed eyelids he sees crumbling walls and burning buildings and tectonic plates that crash together and shake apart, over and over again.

-

God. What the fuck is he going to tell Isak?

-

He has the email draft open on his computer for the whole night. Recipient: Isak Valtersen. Subject line: You Might Want To Sit Down For This, or Please God Don’t Hate Me, or sometimes just I’m Sorry - he changes his mind about it every five minutes. Body: nothing but a blinking cursor. It keeps on flashing in and out of existence like it’s laughing at him.  _ Can’t even tell your best friend something this important, _ it whispers to him.  _ Will you keep this inside yourself until the day you leave? Never tell him and let him wake up one day to an empty house next to him, no explanation, not even a note? What will he think of you then? You think he’d be angry if you told him now, well, just you wait. Just you fucking wait. _

Looking at it makes him feel nauseous, which is stupid, so fucking stupid, what the hell can a bunch of black and white pixels do to him? But when the sun comes up, he deletes the draft. All the words he wants to say wouldn’t fit into a text message, and Isak doesn’t deserve to find out something like this from an impersonal email with a treacherous voice. Isak deserves to find out in person.

This is what he tells himself: next time he sees Isak, he will have the courage to say it out loud.

This is what he knows:

He is not a good liar.

-

After school, Isak greets him with a smile, and for once doesn’t complain about his tardiness.

“Your place today, right?” he says.

Even smiles back. “Of course. You promised.”

Promises. They burn in the back of his throat, all the ones he made that will soon be broken.

-

It’s too cold now for the trampoline, so they stay inside. Isak insists they play some FIFA, let him choose the games for once, they always play the same thing every time, and okay, so maybe Even does have more than a soft spot for Nintendo, but also his tastes in video games are objectively superior to Isak’s in every way, so he can’t help but feel a little offended. Still, he can’t find it in himself to refuse Isak, especially when everything’s been so shitty at home for him lately, so they play, and Even laughs good-naturedly when Isak wins, and for once he does not bring up the fact that the only reason Isak chose this game is because it’s the only one he has even a mild chance of beating Even at.

“I’m bored,” Isak declares after about half an hour.

“Well, yeah, because FIFA is a boring game,” Even says. He reaches over to turn the console off.

“Yeah, yeah,” Isak says. It says a lot, probably, that he doesn’t let Even’s insults get to him more than that today. “Let’s do something else.”

‘Something else’ turns out to be ‘attempting to bake a cake’, because they’ve already beaten all their other ideas for things to do to hell and back, and also because Even decided on a whim he wanted to do something that broke traditional gender norms. Isak had made a strange face at that, but otherwise had not protested. Had even enthusiastically declared his approval after a gentle reminder on Even’s part that cake is cake no matter how you got it - “Yeah, okay, death to those pesky gender norms, let’s eat some fucking cake” - until they have to find a recipe, which Isak decides is already too much work.

Well, more like Isak decides he doesn’t want to put up with Even’s shenanigans which, fair. Even does indeed get up to a decent amount of shenanigans at pretty much any given time. In this case, shenanigans means spending over ten minutes trying to find the perfect recipe.

“Just pick the first one that comes up, oh my god,” Isak says.

“What? No,” Even says, scandalized. “Choosing a recipe takes skill. It takes finesse.”

Though for all his talk, he does eventually end up going with something random after Isak threatens to make them go back to playing FIFA again. He’d been looking for something with sour cream - those scrambled eggs from a few weeks ago have convinced him that sour cream absolutely needs to be in everything he attempts to make - but no dice. He picks something with absurd amounts of chocolate instead.

“We’re going to have heart attacks eating this,” Isak says as he watches Even stir the batter. They agreed from the start that Isak’s role as a sous chef would primarily consist of gentle encouragement and friendly banter, as his cooking skills aren’t so much terrible as they are nonexistent. Not that Isak is really good at those things, either, but Even is willing to lower his standards just this once. “We’re actually going to get diabetes.”

“Yes, but will we regret it?” Even holds out the spoon invitingly. “These are the real questions.”

Isak’s eyes widen when he tastes the batter. “No, definitely not,” he says.

Even grins. “Right answer.”

They’re too impatient to wait for the cake to cool down when it comes out of the oven, so Even cuts the largest pieces he can and puts them on their best plates. They almost burn their tongues trying to scarf it down, and by the end of it Isak has dark brown cake crumbs all around his mouth. The pieces were almost certainly too big, too. Even eats so much so quickly he gets the hiccups, and they won’t stop for a solid ten minutes. It’s still one of the best decisions they’ve ever made.

Even looks over at Isak, clutching at his stomach and rolling around dramatically, complaining about how terrible everything is, and he knows that this is it, now is the time. Now, when things are still good and the cake they just ate is sweet enough to soften the blow. A clean cut. Just get it over with.

Isak meets his gaze and raises his eyebrows. “What are you looking at?”

Even looks down. “Still got cake around your mouth. You look dumb as hell.”

Isak wipes at his lips. “Rude.”

Even doesn’t answer. He just smiles.

-

Isak adjusts the straps of his bag on his back. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course,” Even says.

It is not a lie. His heart beats steadily in his chest.

-

He turns the words of a proper confession over in his thoughts at night, carefully rewriting and revising, shifting clauses around and deleting ones that don’t belong. There are drafts upon drafts of the same message piling up in his head, their edges bumping into each other and blurring together into increasingly incoherent strings of apologies and bad feelings. He closes his eyes and tries to see Isak in front of him, tries to imagine actually saying any of this garbage to him. His brain conjures up the image of Isak almost as easily as if he was thinking of himself, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the almost-perpetual grumpiness weighing down his mouth melting away into a half-smile as Even approaches. Even doesn’t know if the fact that the image came to mind so fast makes it better, or worse.

_ So Isak, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a boy, and he was born in a house, and he grew up in the house, and he never left the house, had never known what it’s like outside of it, never even thought he’d have to know; and next to him lived another boy, and it was the same. _

_ And they knew each other, and they liked each other, and they were friends, the very best of friends. The world had never seen a friendship as great as theirs. Truly one for the history books, it was.  _

_ But the first boy, see, the first boy got too confident. He thought he could have this forever. He told the other boy they’d have this forever. And then one day the first boy had to leave to a place the other couldn’t follow.  _

_ And nothing was the same, ever again. Nothing was ever the same. _

As far as stories go, it’s really not his finest work.

-

Isak’s letting Even study with him today, which is a sign that his workload isn’t too terrible. Or perhaps it’s a sign his tolerance level for Even’s bullshit is growing higher by the day. Even isn’t too sure which it is, to be honest.

Today, Even is practicing origami. He learned how to fold a crane from the internet during a fit of restless boredom late last night and now he finds he doesn’t want to stop. The repeated motions soothe him, give his fingers a steady rhythm to settle into. He tears notebook paper into smaller pieces, hunches over his work in concentration, smooths down the creases as carefully as he can. In half an hour, he’s made a little over a dozen.

“You’re so bad at being productive,” Isak says, glancing up from his textbook.

Even flicks a crane over in his direction. He can’t help but feel some small sense of victory when it lands right on the page of Isak’s book. “You’re just jealous I’m doing something totally awesome with my time while you’re doing something totally boring.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely it.” Isak brushes the crane out of the way. “Seriously, though, what’s the point?”

Even starts tearing out more pieces of paper. He wonders how many he can make this afternoon. A hundred? That might be pushing it.

“If I fold a thousand, I get to make a wish,” he says.

“One wish?” Isak’s eyebrows shoot up skeptically. “Seems like a lot of effort for just one wish.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Even shrugs. “It’s supposed to be a wish the gods will grant you, though, so you could probably ask for just about anything in the world, and they’ll make it happen with a divine sweep of their godly hands.”

“Yeah?” Isak taps his pencil against his chin. “And what would you wish for?”

Even looks down at the paper in front of him. He wishes he knew where his scissors are. It would make this a lot easier. As it is, a lot of the smaller pieces he’s ripped out have jagged edges, and it shows. Most of the cranes are drooping, misshapen, kind of pathetic looking, actually. He doesn’t know if he’s glad he brought them into existence. Such a sad, pointless life he’s doomed them all to for such a sad, pointless goal.

“I’d wish for your feet to stop being so stinky,” he says. “It’s terrible. You can smell it all the way from over here.”

Isak kicks him in the ankle. “Liar.”

Even doubles over in fake agony. “It burns. Oh, how it burns.”

Isak rolls his eyes. Even doesn’t miss the quiet smile that comes after, though. He doesn’t miss it.

-

After Isak finishes his homework, Even convinces him to stay for dinner. Not that it’s a hard argument to make. Isak loves Even’s mom’s cooking, loves his father’s weird and stilted jokes, and he probably knows well enough at this point that neither of them would ever say no to making room for him at the dinner table. Even would bet Isak was waiting for him to ask, if his mental bank wasn’t already so full from all the silent bets he’s ever made himself. 

While they wait for his parents to get home, Even decides they should put on a movie. Isak agrees, but only if he gets to pick. Even doesn’t know why this keeps on being a condition when they both know Even has superior taste in everything, but he doesn’t push it. If he pushes it, Isak might threaten to leave, and they can’t have that, even if it’s just a joke. Not right now, at least. Even is too tired right now for jokes like that.

“One of these days,” he says as he puts on Isak’s shitty movie, like seriously, how many times can a person watch a movie directed by Michael Bay and still think it’s worth watching again, “I’m going to finally get you to watch a Baz Luhrmann film.”

Isak scoffs. “In your dreams.”

“Yes, true, I do dream about getting you to watch Baz Luhrmann every night,” Even says. He drops himself on the couch, swings his legs up and into Isak’s lap.

For half a second, he almost expects Isak to shove them off, but Isak just leans his head back on his arms, face turned toward the television. “Honestly, that just sounds creepy.”

“I can’t be a creep,” Even says. “I’m the most wholesome fifteen year old in the world.”

Isak snorts out a scandalized laugh. “Yeah,  _ right _ .”

“No, seriously, take out the Guinness Book of World Records, you’ll find my picture right there. Right next to the guy who ate an airplane, probably beneath the guy who can long-distance squirt milk from his eyeballs.”

Isak brings a hand to his face, but underneath the facepalm Even knows he’s still laughing.

“One day,” Even says, for emphasis. “Baz Luhrmann.”

“Not today,” Isak declares. “Today is National ‘No Hipster Bullshit Movies’ Day. We’re going to have to celebrate it next year, too. We’ll marathon the Fast and Furious franchise.”

The title screen is up on the television now, playing its generically badass action movie music. Even reaches for the remote and hits play.

“Yeah,” he says. “Next year.”

-

After dinner, they go to Even’s room to get Isak’s stuff so he can get home. Isak grabs his bag and stands there, fiddling with the straps. His foot taps out an absent-minded rhythm, and that’s how Even knows he doesn’t want to go home quite yet.

“Hey,” Even says.

Isak turns slightly. “Hm?”

Another sleepover would probably be too much, Even thinks.

“Want to get out of here for a bit?” he says.

Isak’s hand squeezes around the strap of his bag. “Let me guess,” he says. “You want to go back to that stupid playground.”

Even shrugs. “We don’t have to. We can just go somewhere. Get lost, even.”

Isak grimaces. “We suck at plans. Seriously, we’re the most boring teenage boys in the world.”

True as that may be, if Even had the choice, he wouldn’t change a single thing.

“Well, we can be boring in my room doing nothing or we can be boring outside,” even says. “I guess it depends on what scenery you prefer.”

Isak lets out a laugh. “Well, if it’s just down to  _ scenery _ ,” he says. “Your posters are kind of ugly.”

Even gives him a light shove. “Like your room is better, Mister ‘I have no sense of style and also no money to actually get anything nice’.”

“I have priorities more important than spending money on shit no one’s going to see,” Isak sniffs.

Even doesn’t point out that that’s not entirely true. After all, Even would see it, wouldn’t he? That’s just a given.

Or it is for the moment, at least.

God. Sometimes his brain is his least favorite place to be.

He clears his throat. “I’m sure thirteen year old boys have tons of important things to worry about,” he says.

“Yeah exactly.” Isak grins. “How’d you know?”

Even shakes his head. “You’re such a little shit, you know that, right?”

“Nah,” Isak says. His grin grows wider, somehow. Even wants to tell him if he smiles any bigger, his mouth is going to fall right off his face. But it doesn’t make much sense, he knows, and Isak wouldn’t hesitate to point that out. So he doesn’t.

When did he stop saying things like that out loud? He doesn’t know. 

Is that question or its answer more disturbing to him? He doesn’t know that, either.

“So are we going or not?” Isak says. “Sun’s going to set soon.”

Even hazards a glance at him. He’s got his hands shoved into his pockets and his gaze directed at the window. A typical Isak pose. True to his word, the light that filters in looks like it’s dying, all muted oranges and deep reds and fading yellows. Shadows of its usual glorious self. It shines dimly in Isak’s eyes, and for a brief moment, just a second, Even thinks it reminds him of fire.

Isak looks over at him, then, and their eyes meet. Even wonders briefly if Isak will look away, but he doesn’t. He just raises his eyebrows slightly, like a question.  _ What are you looking at? _ , maybe. Or,  _ Are you going to say anything? _ Or perhaps that look means something else entirely.

Even doesn’t try to guess. Maybe another time, maybe even five minutes ago, he would have. But not now. Not right now.

He holds Isak’s gaze for as long as he can, lets the silence of the moment fill him up from his toes to his lungs. And when it gets to be so much he almost feels dizzy with it, that’s when he turns away. He can’t look at Isak forever. No matter how much he wants to.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

-

The problem with trying to get lost is that they know the streets around their house too well. They bike down the road, make a few turns, but they can’t seem to get to a point where it would be worth it to try something different. Neither of them feel like having to remember the way back home.

“Theoretically, it wouldn’t be so bad,” Isak says. “We’ve both got phones with GPS. Why can’t we just go wherever we want? Live life on the edge a little.”

“Yeah, but mine’s on its last twenty percent,” Even points out. “Living life on the edge is cool and all, but maybe not that edge.”

“Yeah, okay, it would suck to run out of battery trying to get home,” Isak concedes. “But fuck, there’s got to be more to it than this.”

Objectively speaking, of course there’s more to the world than a handful of streets in some anonymous corner of Oslo. Even doesn’t think he actually minds not being able to see the rest of it, though. He doesn’t really  _ need _ more than this.

_ Too bad, _ his traitorous brain says.  _ You’re getting it anyway _ .

God, he says to it silently, when will you learn how to shut up?

“There’s your favorite playground over there,” Even says out loud. “Look at it, it’s so sad. ‘Come play with me, Isak,’ it’s whispering. Are you going to leave it hanging?”

“How is it that you always manage to find a way to make anything sound creepy?” Isak says. “It has to be some kind of skill.” Still, he directs his bike toward the playground and doesn’t put up much more protest than that, which Even decides he gets to count as a victory. When it comes to Isak, it’s always a good idea to take them where you can get them.

They pretty much tired out the usefulness of the swings the last time they were here, and they’re too big for some of the slides, so they end up just heaving themselves up onto one of the platforms and letting their legs dangle over the edge. The sun miraculously hasn’t yet set, but it’s getting dangerously close to the edge of the horizon.

“You know,” Even says, “sometimes I feel like the director of my own life.”

“Hm?” He can feel it when Isak looks over at him, can visualize the uncomprehending expression on his face almost as if it was right in front of him. He stares straight ahead.

“Or that I should be,” Even clarifies. “Because if I really was the director, I could decide when conversations would happen, what people would do. I could redo a scene if it just turned out to be trash. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

“I guess,” Isak says, doubtfully.

“But I can’t do that,” Even says. His fingers are starting to ache dully, which he finds strange until he looks down and realizes he’s gripping the edge of the platform with both his hands, so tight he can see the whiteness of his knuckles even in the shadows of the surrounding trees. He swallows. “I don’t have control like that. You get one shot at things, even if you massively fuck them up. It’s kind of scary when you think about it.”

Isak is silent, for a bit. Usually, Even doesn’t mind it. Usually, he even finds comfort in it, in its familiarity. Now, though, it lodges itself uncomfortably inside his chest, sitting in a space that wasn’t made for it somewhere between his ribs, or maybe just below his lungs. It’s hard to breathe. Harder to remember how.

Isak sighs, then. Even doesn’t feel relief when the silence is broken. He’s not really sure what he feels. Then again, he doesn’t think he’s known that in a long time.

“Are you scared of massively fucking things up right now?” Isak says. “With me?”

Even forgets, sometimes, just how well Isak can see through him. It’s a given that Even can look at Isak on any given day and maybe not tell you what he was thinking but definitely at least what he was feeling, see through any lie he might tell, any smile he doesn’t mean. But their friendship isn’t one of those one way mirrors. It’s not like they’re sitting on different sides of the glass and only Even can look through it. Isak can see him, too.

“Maybe,” Even says.

Isak stares down at the ground. “Don’t be like that, Even,” he says.

Even exhales. It feels like he’s been holding his breath for a long time.

“Okay,” he says.

“What could you possibly have to be scared about?” Isak says. “It’s  _ me _ .” 

He’s trying to keep calm, Even can tell from the stillness of his fingers and the steadiness of his words, but he doesn’t quite have enough control to keep all the frustration out of his voice. Isak doesn’t get angry at Even, he just doesn’t, so Even knows that’s not what that is. Still, knowing something and believing it are two different things.

“There’s - “ Even takes in a deep breath, tries again. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Well, yeah,” Isak says, slowly, as if Even just stated the most obvious fact in the world. “I knew that much.”

Even glances at him out of the corner of his eye, trying not to frown at that. He’d thought he’d done better. Then again, he always thinks that, right up until the moment Isak proves him wrong. He should know better by now, probably.

“Really?” he says.

Briefly, Isak meets his gaze. The corner of his mouth lifts up. Despite the circumstances, despite everything, Even is still glad he gets to see him smile.

“You’re not as mysterious as you think you are,” Isak says.

“No.” Even tilts his head toward the sky. “I guess I’m not.”

“So - “ Isak clears his throat. “I mean - no pressure or anything. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. But - “

“I want to,” Even says. “Or I should, anyway.”

He reaches his hand into his pocket and pulls out a folded paper crane. It’s a little crushed, but it still looks like what it’s supposed to be, so at least he can feel okay about his craftsmanship. He’d been saving it for a good time, but when it comes to something like this, he probably should have figured there was never going to be a good time. And now’s as good as any. If he’s not going to do it now, he probably never will.

Isak stares down at it. “You didn’t seriously make it to a thousand, did you?”

“No,” Even says. “I gave up after maybe fifty. Didn’t have the patience.”

The other thing he didn’t have, he doesn’t say, was the belief that he, one person, has the ability to change the trajectory of the future just by folding up a bunch of pieces of paper. He’s never been that superstitious, and he knows better than to delude himself into thinking that he, of all people, has power that he doesn’t. There is no human being who can delay the inevitability of the universe just by sheer force of will.

Even holds the paper bird out to Isak. “You should read it.”

Isak frowns as he takes it. “Read it? It’s got no words.”

“I mean, unfold it,” Even says. “Unfold it, and read it.”

There’s barely enough daylight now for that to be possible, but Even thinks it can be done. Isak could probably find a way, anyway, if he decided this was important enough. Carefully, Isak unfolds the paper. Even closes his eyes to the sound of it, the bird turning into a comic he drew weeks ago. For a comic, it’s not very funny. There are two houses standing next to each other. One of them has a big, black X scratched over it. And over the both of them, the words - 

_ I’m moving out of Oslo. _

It’ll be the first thing Isak sees. There’s no way he can miss it.

It’s quiet again, now, save the wind rustling through the leafless branches around them. Even would like to pretend his heart isn’t beating so hard it feels like it might explode out of his chest, but he can’t. He can’t open his eyes, either. He doesn’t want to see what Isak’s face looks like.

“Oh,” Isak says, quietly.

Even’s eyes flutter open, almost involuntarily. He looks over at Isak, who’s staring straight ahead. It’s dark, the sun’s almost completely disappeared under the horizon and the shadows around them are many and looming, but Even can still see the outline of Isak’s face. Can still see way too much of it.

“Isak,” he says.

Before he can say anything more, though, Isak shoves himself off the platform. “I’m ready to go home,” he says. His voice is level, but that doesn’t mean anything, really, not if Even can’t see his face. Suddenly, he wants nothing more, even though two seconds ago he wanted nothing less.

There’s a lump in Even’s throat. How did it get there?

He swallows past it, or tries to, anyway. It stays stuck.

“If you’re sure,” he says.

“I’m sure,” Isak says. He doesn’t turn around.

Neither of them say anything else on the way back to their bikes. Never in Even’s life has he felt such a need to fill up the silence. Never in his life has he known less how to do so.

Isak picks his bike up from the ground and swings his leg over the seat. “Race home?” he says.

It’ll be a long ways to go. Even’s not much of a distance biker, that’s always been more of Isak’s thing. Even likes to take things in sprints, short bursts of energy. Still, it can’t hurt to try. Even at a time like this, he won’t say no to the opportunity to kick Isak’s ass.

“Okay,” Even says. “Let’s do it.”

And they go.

It’s a close race, all the way until the end. Even is sure he’s never pedaled this hard in his life. It feels important for some reason, this stupid bet they’ve been making for over six years. Feels like the last one they’ll ever make. But it won’t be, right? They still have time. They don’t have all the time in the world, but they have something. Something small, but something regardless. Right?

On the last street, Isak manages to pull ahead by just a few inches. Even pushes harder, muscles in his legs burning and lungs feeling too big for his ribcage, breath going in and out so fast his throat feels dry as a desert, but after he lost that little bit of ground there’s just no way he’s going to be able to gain it back. Isak skids to a stop in front of their houses about a second before Even, but it’s enough. They both know who won.

For a while, they just sit there, hunched over their bikes and trying to catch their breaths enough for speech. Even’s hands clench around his handlebars. There is pain in his calves and pain in his abdomen and pain in his lungs, but there’s also pain in his chest he’s not quite sure can be entirely blamed on physical exertion. It feels deeper than the other pains, deeper than skin deep. He can feel it spreading out like a tumor, weaving around his bones, curling in his gut.  _ Heartbreak, _ he thinks, but that’s silly; neither of them are in love with anyone.

Eventually, at last, their breaths begin to slow down. Even can’t bring himself to move, though. Can’t bring himself to know what the next moment is going to bring.

“Did you go easy on me?” Isak says, head still bent over his handlebars.

Even straightens. He stares at Isak. “No,” he says. “Went all out. I always do.”

“Yeah,” Isak says. “I know.”

Even can’t look away from him, can’t look away from this boy all strung out and draped over his bike like a rag doll. Isak has never looked so tired, and this is just what he looks like from behind. Even hasn’t seen his face since they left the playground.

“Congratulations,” he says. “What’s the punishment?”

Isak is still, now. Even didn’t think it was possible for a human to be so still. Isak is not a boy of motion, but he is not a statue, either. It just feels wrong to see him like this. Utterly and irrevocably wrong. But then, a lot of things happened tonight that weren’t supposed to, didn’t they?

“Loser has to stay,” Isak says.

The words hang in the air between them, heavy, almost tangible. It feels like he could reach out and pluck them out of the air, hold them close to his chest and protect them from the rest of the world. He doesn’t, because he doesn’t know how much it would hurt to find out he can’t actually touch them, and he doesn’t want to.

“Isak,” Even says, helplessly. “I can’t - “

“Yeah,” Isak says. “I know.”

Isak turns around, then, and he’s smiling. Even can see it, even in the dark. He can’t see much else. He can’t see his eyes. Can’t see if his hands are trembling around his handlebars.

“I should go home,” Isak says.

“Yeah,” Even says. “You should.”

Isak looks away, but he doesn’t move. Even doesn’t, either. It occurs to him there’s another thing he wants to reach out and touch, to envelop in his arms and never let go. He doesn’t know if Isak would let him, though. So he doesn’t try. He just doesn’t try.

“Good night, Even,” Isak says.

And he gets off his bike, and he walks to his house.

And Even watches him, watches as he pauses on the doorstep and brings a hand up to his face and stands there for a long moment, before he opens the door, letting his arm fall limply to his side, and closes it behind him. Even watches for a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even looks over at him, and Isak is grinning, and this time there’s no questioning that it’s real. The warmth in Even’s chest grows, soft and gentle. His insides bask in its glow. If nothing else, Even thinks, at least there’s this. At least Isak is here, sitting next to him, as if there’s no other place he’d rather be. For a long, heady moment, it feels like nothing else matters. It’s a good feeling.
> 
> And it’s not going to last forever, but surely that doesn’t make it any less good.

_iv._

The next morning, half an hour before Even usually leaves for school, his doorbell rings.

He’s fully dressed, but that’s mostly because he didn’t go to bed last night. He almost asks his parents to get the door for him, tell whoever it is outside that he’s still asleep. He doesn’t, because he already knows who it is, and the person standing outside his door is the kind of person who would know that it’s a lie.

With a small, silent sigh, Even makes his way to the front door and opens it.

It’s Isak, which is probably one of the least surprising things that has ever happened to Even. He’s holding two steaming cups in his gloved hands, looking down at the ground like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Hey,” Even says.

Isak looks up at him, then, and smiles. That’s a little bit more surprising.

“Good morning,” Isak says. “Let me in? It’s cold out here.”

Instinctively, Even steps to the side. Isak promptly steps into the house and wipes his feet on the doormat. Even closes the door behind him.

“I made you coffee,” Isak says. “The way you like it, black as your soul.”

“Black as the night sky,” Even agrees. He takes the cup Isak offers him without protest, without questioning why he did it, why he’s here so early, why he’s _here_. Coffee is coffee, and at this time of day, you just don’t question it.

Isak walks to the living room with the air of someone who expects to be followed. Even supposes he’s not wrong about that. He tightens the grip around his coffee cup and heads in the same direction.

Isak’s sitting on one of the couches now, sipping at his own cup. Isak doesn’t drink coffee, so it’s probably hot chocolate or something. Even doesn’t bother asking, just takes his seat next to Isak and holds his coffee between his hands and watches the steam curl into the air above it. He doesn’t look at Isak. He’s scared to. Doesn’t really know why, just knows that the feeling is there.

“Can I ask you some things?” Isak says.

Even can guess, probably, what Isak wants to know. Silently, he nods.

“Why are you moving?”

Even exhales. It figures that Isak wouldn’t pull punches about this. When he thinks something is important, he never does.

“My dad’s transferring,” he says. “Some new fancy job, I guess.”

Isak nods. “And where are you going?” he says, clearly not interested in wasting any time. The way he says it makes it sound like they’re just having a friendly, harmless chat. Or maybe the brusqueness of his voice is more akin to a job interview. Not that Even would know; he’s never had one.

He brings his coffee to his lips and takes his first mouthful. It’s good, which is kind of surprising considering he’s pretty sure Isak has never even attempted to make coffee before. Maybe he does have some culinary skills. And he was right. He made it just the way Even likes it.

“Stavanger,” he says.

He can practically feel Isak’s wince at that. He glances over, but Isak has already smoothed over his expression.

“Well,” Isak says, matter of fact. “That’s not as bad as it could be. There’s always the train.”

“Yeah,” Even says. “During breaks. Or something.”

“Exactly.” Isak looks at him, and smiles again. “Last question. When are you leaving?”

Even takes this chance to look back, really look at Isak. He’s fairly certain the smile is real, which is a bit of a relief. But he can’t miss the dark circles under his eyes, the tiny lines of exhaustion etched around his mouth. Even, apparently, was not the only one who couldn’t sleep last night. He should have figured. He really should have.

“At the end of the year,” Even says.

Isak’s breath hitches, a tiny noise. Even can’t miss that, either.

A moment later, though, Isak is breathing normally again. His smile widens.

“So you’ll be here for Christmas, then,” Isak says. “Good. I can’t let you leave without giving you the most kickass present ever.”

For some reason, it’s this more than anything else that makes Even’s heart twist painfully in his chest. The way Isak says it, he thinks, that’s what it is. The smoothness of his voice, the largeness of his smile. He’s being so careful about this, it almost makes Even want to tear his own hair out at the unfairness of it. He shouldn’t _have_ to be careful about it.

And the worst of it is, he knows Isak is like this for his sake. It’s his way of trying to protect Even. Protect him from what, he can’t say. He wants to tell Isak it’s not necessary, whatever it’s for. But the words lodge themselves in the back of his mouth, and he can’t seem to get them out.

He clears his throat. Other words, then.

“Funny,” he says, “because I thought that’s what I was getting you.”

Isak makes a shocked noise. “Is that a challenge? Are you challenging me at gift-giving?”

The exaggeratedly offended tone still manages to get at Even, even when things are like this. He can’t help but smile down at his hands, can’t help but feel the smile inside of him, too, a small spot of warmth inside his chest.

“Maybe I am,” he says. “And I’ve got this in the bag. I keep on telling you, you have bad taste. I don’t know why you keep trying.”

“Well, then,” Isak says, gravely. “It’s a deal.”

Even looks over at him, and Isak is grinning, and this time there’s no questioning that it’s real. The warmth in Even’s chest grows, soft and gentle. His insides bask in its glow. If nothing else, Even thinks, at least there’s this. At least Isak is here, sitting next to him, as if there’s no other place he’d rather be. For a long, heady moment, it feels like nothing else matters. It’s a good feeling.

And it’s not going to last forever, but surely that doesn’t make it any less good.

-

After school, Isak promptly sits down at Even’s desk and pulls out a sheet of paper.

Even takes his seat next to him. “What are you doing?”

“Making a list,” Isak says.

Even raises his eyebrows. “A list?”

“A list of all the things we should do before you leave,” Isak says.

A laugh bubbles up in Even’s throat of its own volition, even as something clenches tightly in his heart. Leave it to Isak, really. Even knows him well, better than Even knows anyone else and possibly better than most know Isak, but that’s probably what makes it so easy for Isak to catch him off guard. Even the slightest deviation from what Even expected is liable to throw him.

Though he’s not exactly sure what he expected, in this case. Maybe he thought they weren’t going to talk about it. Just ignore it, pretend the matter of Even going away isn’t this thing that’s constantly hanging over their heads like some type of death sentence. But of course Isak is the kind of boy who would refuse to let it. Of course he is.

‘What’s there to do that we haven’t done a million times before?” Even says. “Don’t tell me you’re making a bucket list.”

“I might be making a bucket list,” Isak admits. “First thing I’m going to put - ‘get Even a better haircut’.”

“Excuse me,” Even gasps. “You love my hair.”

“Next thing,” Isak starts. Even waits for him to keep going, but he doesn’t.

“Next thing?” Even says, wondering if he should bother being curious.

Isak clears his throat. “Next thing is I’m finally going to beat you at both Mario Kart _and_ Super Smash Bros,” he says.

Guess not. Even throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, you _wish_.”

“It’s going to happen,” Isak insists. “I swear.”

Even grins. “Yeah, okay. I’m looking forward to it.”

“You should,” Isak says. He’s smiling, too, though he’s clearly trying to hide it by turning back to his bucket list and scrawling his shitty handwriting across the paper. Not that his efforts are working. They hardly ever do, no matter what Isak might insist.

“So I can make suggestions to this bucket list, right?” Even says.

“Nope,” Isak says. “If I let you, you’re just going to make us watch a Baz Luhrmann movie.”

“Seriously?” Even pulls his face into an exaggerated pout, for as much good as that will do. “What do you have against Baz Luhrmann?”

“I don’t trust your movie taste,” Isak says, matter-of-fact.

Even’s not totally sure about that, considering the startlingly high number of movies he’s shown Isak that have made him cry. Though perhaps it would not be the best idea to remind Isak of this tiny detail. Instead, Even collapses on top of Isak and lets his body go limp, bringing a hand to his forehead and doing his best to swoon dramatically.

“This is bullshit,” he moans. “This is slander.”

Isak pushes Even off with the practiced ease of someone who has had to deal with this exact maneuver approximately way too many times. “I didn’t say anything about _you_ ,” Isak points out.

“Semantics,” Even says. He looks down at the piece of paper under Isak’s hands. He can’t quite make out what Isak is writing, the angle is a bit off, but there’s already five or six items on the list from what he can see, and Isak hasn’t stopped writing since they sat down.

Something swells in his chest, a little. Isak’s determination when it comes to things like this never ceases to amaze him.

“Thanks, by the way,” he says.

Isak glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “For what?”

“For doing this,” Even says.

Isak huffs out a short laugh and ducks his head down, probably so he can hide the tinged pink of his cheeks. Even so, Even doesn’t miss it.

“It’s nothing,” Isak mumbles. “Anyone would.”

But it’s not nothing. And Isak isn’t just anyone.

The words come readily to his mind, but when he tries to say them, they stick in his throat.

He tries again.

“Still,” he says. “Thanks.”

Isak looks at him again. This time, he looks, actually looks, instead of just glancing away seconds later. For a moment, Even thinks he might be searching for something. Though for what, Even knows better at this point than to think he could guess.

Isak gives a little shake of his head. The moment passes.

“You know,” Isak says, “I’m still not going to watch Baz Luhrmann with you.”

Even sighs. “You’re breaking my heart, Isak. You really are.”

Isak doesn’t roll his eyes. He casts them downward, instead, and it might hurt a little to see him looking down if it weren’t for the fact that Even can also see the tiniest upward curve of his mouth. It makes Even smile, too, to see something like that. Makes him happier than most things could.

-

More than half of the bucket list ends up being impossible to actually complete. There are items such as “fly to the moon” and “discover the lost continent of Atlantis” and “travel back in time to meet Julius Caesar”.

“You know,” Even says as he reads over the list, “I know we’re awesome and all, but we’re not miracle workers.”

“I know,” Isak says, flashing him a smile. It’s gone almost as quickly. “I needed to fill up the space with something.”

“So we’ll be okay if we don’t do everything on here, then,” Even says.

Carefully, Isak folds up the list and tucks it into his pocket.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think we’ll be okay.”

-

Isak insists that beating him at his own game - literally his own game, Isak doesn’t even have a copy of Mario Kart - should be the first item they tackle from the list. Even tells him he doesn’t think they’re ever going to be able to scratch it off. Isak scrunches up his face and sticks out his tongue in retaliation. It doesn’t make Even feel bad; it just makes him laugh.

“So what exactly are the stakes here?” Even says. “Like, do you want to get more points than me or do you just want to beat me once?”

“I’m going to beat you more than once,” Isak says confidently, which means he knows he’s definitely not going to.

“Geez, that’s going to take a while,” Even says. “We should probably waive the challenge clause. I mean, it would be pretty unreasonable of me to expect you to do a hundred things I tell you to.”

“A hundred?” Isak says, affronted. “You really think it’d take me that long?”

“You’re almost half a lap behind me right now,” Even reminds him. “Also, I was being generous.”

“Ugh. I need to handicap you, somehow. Make you pick your least favorite character.”

“I can promise you that doing that would have zero effect on my ability to kick your ass,” Even says as he deftly tosses a red shell behind him.

“ _Ugh_.”

All things said and done, it only takes about fifteen rounds today for Isak to call it quits. Even suspects it has something to do with the way he’s always rushing to check his phone in between rounds.

“Your parents are okay, right?” he asks, just to be sure.

Isak looks up from his phone, clearly distracted. “What? Oh, you mean - “ He glances back down at his phone and lets out a small laugh. That’s probably a good sign, Even thinks. “Nah. This nerd I met in class just keeps blowing up my phone with dumb memes.”

Even can practically feel his eyes light up. “Isak Valtersen, don’t tell me you’ve been making friends without telling me. Isak! You’re holding out on me, aren’t you!”

“Calm down, jesus,” Isak says, even as his thumbs fly across his phone’s keyboard. “‘Friends’ is pushing it.” Still, he’s biting his lip, which means he’s trying to hold back a smile, which means he’s almost certainly lying.

“Am I allowed to know their name?” Even says.

“Yeah, sure, it’s no big deal,” Isak says, casually dismissive. “His name’s Jonas.”

“Wow,” Even says. He reaches up with a finger to wipe away an imaginary tear. “Who would have guessed that you, of all people, were capable of forming genuine human connections with actual living people.”

Isak kicks his ankle. “Fuck you,” he says. His smile hasn’t gone away yet.

Even leans back on his elbows and grins at the ceiling. It makes him happy, inordinately so, to know that Isak has people aside from him he can talk to. He hopes he meets all sorts of people this year, and all the years after that. He really, really does.

-

The next item they attempt to tackle from the bucket list is to visit the National Gallery because Isak is appalled, apparently, that Even has never been.

“What do you mean you’ve never _been_?” he says. From the tone of his voice, you’d almost think Even had just committed a serious crime. “Do your parents not love you enough to take you?”

“Geez, don’t bring my parents into this,” Even says with a laugh. “I guess I just haven’t had the time.”

“Edvard Munch, Even! Have you no national pride?”

“You’re acting like I’m putting up this huge protest against going,” Even says, amused despite himself. “I’m telling you, I am a thousand percent okay with spending my day at a fancy art museum. You know me, Isak, you know that’s literally my idea of a perfect date.”

“It’s not a date,” Isak sniffs. “It’s education.”

Even doesn’t answer. He tilts his head and gives Isak a long look. He’s way more serious about this than he should be, probably, arms crossed and brow furrowed for the sake of a righteous cause. Then again, Even doesn’t know that he thinks Isak should be any less serious about anything. It’s one of the things that makes him so good, how much he cares.

“What are you looking at?” Isak says, a little defensively.

 _You_ , Even thinks about saying, but that would just be stating the obvious.

“So we’re going to go now, right?” Even says out loud.

Isak blinks at him. “Wait, you mean right now?”

Even grins. Surprising Isak is so easy, sometimes. “Why the hell not?”

The corner of Isak’s mouth twitches upward. “Stellar argument, there.”

“What, do you disagree?”

“I didn’t say that,” Isak says, no-nonsense, as if the idea of Isak ever disagreeing with him is so unthinkable he’s actually offended.

Even grins. “Great. Let’s go, then.”

Isak stares at him. “Seriously? But I haven’t prepared - “

“That’s okay.” Even turns on his heel and makes his way to the door. “Museum adventure!”

From somewhere behind him, he can just make out Isak’s long-suffering sigh. It doesn’t curb his enthusiasm, not in the slightest. It only makes him smile harder.

-

It takes about half an hour by metro to get to the museum, and by the time they get there they only have a few hours before it closes. Even supposes he’s okay with that. Just being here is already enough to knock the item off their list. And anyway, they’re getting better these days at making the most out of the time they have.

It’s not too crowded, which Even is more than okay with. He doesn’t particularly mind crowds most of the time, but every once in a while he can appreciate silence and solitude. And this means he has the museum and Isak almost entirely to himself.

Despite their limited hours, they decide to take their time with it, lingering in each room to drink in as much of the art around them as they can. They don’t speak much, but they don’t stray too far from each other, either, which Even thinks is a nice balance. Isak reads every informational placard he spots like the precious nerd he is. Even doesn’t try to do the same, for the most part. He likes to stand in the middle of the room, to let the colors and the pictures fill up his vision, his head, until he sees and breathes nothing but the strokes of paint on centuries-old canvas. Sometimes he’ll look at paintings on their own, but he likes trying to take them all in at once mostly because he knows he can’t, and the feeling of trying to hold all these paintings inside himself makes him want to burst, to let forth a flood of all that is in his head. Isn’t that what being an artist is, letting these feelings and these images loose into the world? Is there not a certain kind of peace to relinquishing control like that, to becoming nothing more than a vessel?

He takes in a breath and wanders into the next room. That’s when it catches his eye.

The orange sky. The wooden bridge. The pale, ghostly face stretched, distorted, infinitely frozen in time. He knows this painting, deep in his heart and in the core of his bones. Everyone in the world knows it. He steps toward the painting, barely conscious of moving, and stops.

Everyone in the whole world knows this painting. Even’s heart still beats faster to see it in person.

It’s smaller than he expected, not too far off in size from the paintings on either side of it. The ache in his chest doesn’t feel smaller. In fact, it feels enormous, too big for his body to contain. It occurs to him that this is what he feels when he watches a movie that seems to speak the same language his mind does, when he hears a song that sounds like it knows how to live in his heart. It’s recognition. It’s familiarity. He has never laid eyes upon this painting before, but looking at it now, more than anything else, he sees himself.

Is it strange for him to think a thing like that about a painting this famous? He and this painting are separated by over a hundred years of time. How can he presume to feel this way about it when he doesn’t even know why Edvard Munch painted it in the first place?

He feels eyes on him. He turns, an instinct. His head feels heavy, for some reason, as if waking from a dream he can’t remember. He blinks, trying to clear his mind, before he fully recognizes what it is he sensed.

Isak is standing there, and he’s staring at him.

Even raises his eyebrows. “What’s up?”

Isak glances away. “Nothing,” he says. “We should probably head home soon. We’ve already been here for almost two hours.”

“Wow, really?” Even looks back at the canvas in front of him one last time. What do they feel, the person inside the painting? Is it fear? Is it anxiety? Is it something else entirely, something all-consuming, something that cannot be named?

“Yeah, really,” Isak says.

Even turns away to give him a smile. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“Sure,” Isak says, shrugging. “I’ve been here a million times.”

The way he stopped in front of every painting, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, made it seem like this was the first. That was the way he looked just now, too, when Even caught him. He wonders if his face was just frozen like that the whole time, if he’d seen something incredible just moments before.

“This painting is awesome,” Even says. “I’m satisfied. Don’t need to cross any more items off this bucket list, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Same here, actually,” Isak says. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “This is - it’s enough.”

Even’s smile grows bigger. “What a short-lived bucket list.”

“Eh,” Isak says. “It was a dumb idea, anyway.”

Was it? All Even remembers feeling about it when Isak first suggested it is deep, wordless gratitude. Surely, the fact that Isak has basically refused to leave him alone is a sign that this means a lot, more than either of them can say.

Even nods, more in an attempt to clear his head than in actual agreement. “So all that’s left is the Christmas bet, then,” he says.

“If that’s what we’re calling it.” Isak holds a hand out. “Don’t hold anything back, yeah?”

Even slaps their palms together. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

-

When they get home, Even is in such a good mood he insists Isak stay over so he can make them hot chocolate.

“You already made me my favorite hot drink this month,” he says. “It’s about time I repay the favor.”

“Wow, if I knew it was this easy to get you to do things for me, I’d just make you coffee all the time,” Isak says as he takes his place on the couch.

“Please make me coffee all the time,” Even says. “I would do literally anything for good coffee.”

“Anything?” Isak deepens his voice in what is presumably an attempt – albeit a poor one – to sound like a horror movie trailer. “Would you kill a man?”

“I might kill several men for good coffee,” Even says thoughtfully.

“Whoa, what? Everything makes sense now.” Isak’s eyes widen. “Serial killers kill for caffeine.”

“Sounds about right,” Even says with a sensible nod. “Plot twist – I’ve been a serial killer this whole time.”

“Even!” Isak gasps. “Are you saying the only reason you’re my friend is so you can kill me?”

“Yeah, you’ve got me,” Even says. He brings over the mugs of hot chocolate and hands one over to Isak. “I pretended to care about you for six whole years of our lives just so I can murder you now.”

Isak takes a long sip from his hot chocolate. “You care about me? That’s touching.”

“Pretended to care,” Even corrects.

“Nah,” Isak says. “You’re a terrible actor. Pretending is really not your thing.”

Even grins as he drinks his own chocolate. Fair enough.

Things are quiet for a short while. Isak stirs around the remains of his drink with the spoon in his cup, staring intently at the liquid.

“Can I ask you something, actually?” he says to his hands.

Even can only assume Isak is not actually addressing his own fingers. “Of course,” he says.

“I mean, I wasn’t going to, because it’s not important or anything, but -“ Isak takes in a breath. “I don’t know. Maybe it is, or I wouldn’t be thinking about it so much.”

Even knows, on a theoretical level, that Isak doesn’t mean anything by dancing around the issue to this extent. He knows this, and yet his pulse picks up at the mere suggestion of the implications, anyway.

“If it feels important to you, then it is,” Even says.

Isak gives him a long look, at that. He’s been doing that a lot, just staring at Even for a reason he doesn’t seem to want to explain. It’s pointless, of course, to wonder what it means. If Even doesn’t know why, it’s probably for the best that it stays that way.

“I wasn’t kidding,” Isak says. “You’re really bad at keeping secrets. I could tell you were hiding something for weeks.”

They’re talking about Even moving to a different city. Right, that makes sense. What else could possibly be weighing on both of their minds basically all the time?

“Just -“ Isak runs a hand through his hair, frowning slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I mean – I know it’s your own business, but…” His hands tighten around his cup, just a little. “Don’t you trust me?”

But fuck, Isak has never looked or sounded so small, so closed in on himself. Something twinges deep in Even’s gut, the same kind of instinctual, visceral ache as when he knows he's witnessing something that is wrong.

Why didn’t Even tell Isak sooner? Because he knew that this would happen, that Isak would feel exactly like this, and that it would be his fault. Because he was afraid; above all, he was afraid.

Waiting only made it worse, though, didn’t it? Waiting didn’t make it go away. Waiting only made Isak doubt himself. Only allowed him, somehow, to find yet another way to blame himself for something he had no control over in the first place.

Even has never hated his own brain more than in this moment.

“It’s not you I didn’t trust,” Even says.

Isak looks up at him, startled. Clearly, this wasn’t an answer he saw coming.

“What?” he says.

Even sighs. It figures that the one time he wishes Isak would just understand what he’s trying to say, he doesn’t.

“I didn’t trust myself not to hurt you,” he says, as honestly as he can.

All the breath rushes out of Isak’s lungs. It’s a jarring noise.

“Even,” Isak says, “you wouldn’t have.”

Even stares back at him.

“And you didn't,” Isak continues, and even as his voice shakes on the words there is a fierceness to them, a fire that never fails to amaze Even with its strength, its stubbornness to refuse to go out, whenever he encounters it. “It’s not your fault, okay?”

And it isn’t Isak’s either, Even doesn’t point out.

“Okay?” Isak presses.

Even brings his cup to his lips. The liquid is cold now, but he doesn’t mind that, really. It tastes almost as good.

“Okay,” he says.

-

Isak has to get home before dinner tonight. He hoists his bag onto his shoulder and then stands there for a bit, fidgets with the straps of his bag and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“What’s up?” Even says.

Isak glances at him. “Trying to memorize your living room.”

Even raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing that for?”

“For when you’re not here anymore,” Isak says.

Well. At least they’re being honest with each other, right?

“Taking a picture would be easier,” Even says.

Isak shrugs. “I’m not the one who’s good with cameras.”

Even can’t help but smile at that, despite himself. “I’ll take pictures for you, then. Take pictures of the whole house. Take pictures of me. Maybe I’ll make a movie out of it.”

“What makes you think I’d want your ugly face?” Isak says, face scrunching up in exaggerated disgust.

Even laughs. “Wow, ouch.”

The corner of Isak’s mouth twitches upward. “Anyway, my memory is absolutely perfect. Ten years down the line I’ll remember every single thing in here.”

“Yeah? And what did you have for breakfast yesterday morning?”

“Your mom,” Isak says automatically.

“Gross,” Even says. If he ever forgets Isak is nothing more than the most typical of thirteen year old boys, Isak does a good enough job on his own reminding him.

Isak’s phone buzzes. He checks it, and grimaces. “I should get home,” he says. He doesn’t sound like he really wants to. Then again, if Isak had even a little bit of a choice, he probably wouldn’t. That much, at least, Even feels sure of.

“Maybe,” Even says.

“Man,” Isak says. He smiles weakly, which means he’s probably about to make a joke. “Next year’s going to suck.”

Though as far as jokes go, Even thinks, it’s not that funny.

He huffs out a laugh, anyway. “Yeah,” he says. “You could say that again.”

-

The month of December takes Even’s life a little by storm. The end of term is always a hectic time even when you don’t have to prepare to upend your whole life, but this year Even has that too. Between exams and hanging out with the friends from school he’s probably never going to see again, he barely has any time to pack, but, well, he has to. On the weekends, Isak comes over and sits in his chair and is basically no help whatsoever as Even shoves all his shit into innocuous-looking cardboard boxes. Still, Even is glad for it. His room feels empty enough without his posters and drawings cluttering up his walls. Another person inside it still somewhat makes it feel like his own, even if it doesn’t look like it anymore.

“Thanks,” Even says, nudging Isak’s foot with his own.

“For what?”

“For being here for me,” Even says.

Isak lets out a small laugh.

“Where else would I be?” he says.

Well. Fair enough.

-

Even’s parents invite Isak’s whole family over for Christmas dinner, but in the end only Isak shows up. They have to pretend they didn’t expect it while simultaneously pretending it’s no big deal at all. Even’s parents busy themselves in the kitchen – when it comes to endeavors like this, they usually cook together – while Even and Isak hang out in the living room, their usual haunt during this type of occasion.

“It’s really not much of a Christmas party,” Isak says, sprawled out on the couch with his head turned toward the television. They haven’t changed the channel since they first turned it on, so it’s still playing the news. Even can’t imagine Isak is paying that much attention to what’s going on there.

“My parents don’t have that many friends,” Even says. “I’m not even sure your parents qualify.”

Isak snorts. “Right.”

“Plus, it’s just easier to have you guys over,” Even says. “Like, you don’t even have to drive.”

“Yeah, the two minutes it takes for me to walk to your place really take a lot out of me,” Isak says.

Even grins. “I’m not surprised. You’re horrendously out of shape.”

“Me? Out of shape?” Isak says, scandalized. “I’m the most fit person out there.”

“I’m too tired to challenge you on that right now, but I just hope you know you’re wrong,” Even says.

Isak kicks Even’s leg. “Fuck you.”

Even gasps. “ _Language_ , Isak.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

When Even’s parents call them over for dinner, Even decides that today, he’s in a good mood. These last few months have been heavy, heavy and dark like roiling thunderstorm clouds filled to bursting with rain that hasn’t fallen yet. They’ve pretended not to see the clouds, not to feel the storm with every breath they take, but it was there, regardless. Today, though, he doesn’t think that it is. Today, all he thinks of when he imagines the sky outside is something blue and cloudless and pure.

The food is delicious; he loves his parents’ cooking. His parents’ conversation is actually interesting; he loves his parents. Isak is there, and he’s smiling, and now he’s laughing, and that’s good too.

They help clear the table after dinner’s over. Even brings out a full tub of ice cream from the fridge, and he and Isak dig into it happily. Though ice cream in cold weather generally isn’t the best idea. As it goes down his throat, he can feel the coolness of it spreading through his chest, trembling in his gut. He decides he doesn’t care about that, either.

Then, finally, the moment they’ve been waiting for a long time now: the presents. From his mom and dad, he gets a new sketchbook and a set of pens. They got Isak a gift too because of course they did, a book about outer space and different universes. Isak hugs it to his chest and thanks them profusely, looking genuinely stunned that they actually thought to get him something. Even could point out that they’ve had Isak over for Christmas _and_ gotten him a present almost every year for the last six years of their lives, but he doesn’t. He just grins, and lets Isak soak up the moment.

Then, it’s their turn. They go to Even’s room because apparently that’s where Isak’s gift for Even is. He pulls it out of his bag. The wrapping isn’t totally neat, but Even can tell from the copious amounts of tape and the sharp creases that Isak tried his best. If wrapping paper is enough to make his heart swell in his chest, the present itself might just make it explode.

He tears off the paper as carefully as he can. It’s a clapperboard, one of those classic black and white ones they use in movies to signal the beginning of a scene. In the blank where the name of the director is supposed to go, _Even Bech Næsheim_ is written in sharpie.

“It’s for when you finally get off your ass and start making those movies you’ve always wanted to,” Isak says, sounding nervous. Of course he does, though. He really is the kind of person who would try to explain the gift he gives a person because he’s afraid they won’t like it. “When, not if. I refuse to believe you’ll always be that lazy.”

The last time Even said what he wanted to do with his life out loud was years ago, probably. He’d told his parents he wanted to make movies, and they patted his head and said maybe he could do it as a side thing to his real job? He hasn’t talked about it since. Hasn’t even told anyone he hasn’t quite been able to let go of the idea yet.

Even looks up at Isak. His heart is doing a funny little thing, as if it’s flipping round and round in his chest, but he doesn’t know how to explain it, doesn’t know how to explain why.

“Thanks, Isak,” he says. He feels like he should say more, should express how much it means to him that Isak believes in him like that. He knows what Isak would say to that, though, if he tried to. _Of course I believe in you, Even,_ he’d say, scrunching his face up as if stating the very obvious. _It’s not hard._

And Even would laugh and smile, and try to pretend that he believes him.

“So what’s mine, then?” Isak says, probably eager for a subject change.

“Hold your hand out and close your eyes,” Even says.

“That sounds like a recipe for disaster, knowing you,” Isak says, but does what he’s told anyway.

He opens his eyes a few seconds later when Even has deposited his gift in his hand, and stares down at the paper crane now resting there.

“There’s no hidden life-changing message in here, is there?” Isak says.

Even coughs out a laugh. It hurts a little, coming up. Only a little, though. “No, he says. “But I did fold a thousand. Figured you wouldn’t want, like, ten boxes of these things, so there’s the thousandth. Sorry you have to take my word for it.”

“Seriously? When the hell did you find the time?”

Sleepless nights, Even doesn’t say.

“Answering that question will spoil the magic,” Even says.

Isak rolls his eyes. “What magic?”

“You can make a wish,” Even says. “Any wish you want.”

Even might not believe in wishes, but they both know who out of the two of them does.

“Oh,” Isak says.

Even lets himself smile, as gently as he can. “Is that okay?”

Isak nods. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the crane yet.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s - that’s okay.”

His fingers squeeze lightly around the crane, and he closes his eyes.

At first, it’s fine. Even doesn’t mind letting Isak take his time with it. But a second passes, and then another, and then another. The quiet settles restlessly over Even. He can’t live in it for long.

“Are you making your wish?” he says. “What is it?”

Isak opens his eyes to glare at him. “Telling you would ruin it.”

“Aw, what?” Even pouts. “You’re no fun.”

“It needs to come true,” Isak says stubbornly.

Even sighs, as dramatically as he can. He doesn’t push it, though. He doesn’t need to.

“So I guess we have to decide who won, then,” he says.

Before he’s finished the sentence, Isak’s already shaking his head.

“No, fuck that,” Isak says, emphatically. “Fuck that, we’re both winners.”

Even looks over at him, and Isak holds his gaze defiantly. They stare at each other for a long moment.

Even is the first to look away. He looks down at the clapperboard still in his lap, and lets his fingers trace over the letters of his name across the surface.

He grins. “Yeah, we are,” he says.

-

The morning of the move, Isak wakes up early to see them off. It’s about seven or eight in the morning, so this is definitely a new record for him. He’s still in his PJ pants, and his hoodie looks hastily pulled on. He must be freezing. Even can’t begrudge him for the permanent-looking grimace etched on his face.

As his parents move the last of their suitcases and boxes and things into the car, Even stands in front of Isak. They’re quiet, and Even doesn’t know if that’s because of the cold, or the early hour, or the circumstances, or a mess of all of the above. Or maybe it’s the words they’ve said to each other, and the words they haven’t. All built up to this one moment, when there are no words at all.

“You look like you’re going to catch pneumonia,” Even says. “Why didn’t you put on something warmer?”

“I didn’t realize your parents would be so damn slow,” Isak mumbles. “Thought I’d be out here for, like, a minute. Why aren’t you helping them?”

“Figured I’d talk to you instead,” Even says.

“What’s there to talk about?” Isak says, staring at the ground.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Even doesn’t know, either.

“I’m going to miss you,” Even says.

It’s a simple sentence, about as basic as it gets. He could say so much more. He wants to say so much more. But those five words scraped his throat raw just trying to get out, and the rest of them are stuck in his lungs. His chest hurts, a little. He doesn’t know why.

Isak gives a minute nod. “Yeah,” he whispers, his breath clouding around his head. He doesn’t look up.

The silence sits between them, after that, and Even lets it. He doesn’t know what else to do with it.

It’s only broken when Even’s mom walks up to them and tells them it’s time to go. He climbs into the car. Before closing the door, he looks back at Isak.

“I’ll message you, okay?” Even says. “Every day.”

Isak looks up at him, and Even’s breath freezes in his throat at the sight of it, the heaviness in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to.

Even closes the door. His mom starts the car and they back out of the driveway, and Even looks out the back window at Isak, still standing there, until he can’t see him anymore.

He turns back to the front, and rests his head against the cold glass of the window. There’s an odd feeling in his chest, tingling in his fingertips. Disappointment, he thinks. Or regret. Over what, he can’t say. He just knows that he feels it.

They didn’t say good bye. Neither of them did. He wonders if that’s yet another thing he should regret.

 

**_end of part I_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -This fic will be going on a brief pause as I finish up work on Part II. I'm hoping to get out the next update in about two weeks, but things might happen and also school is kicking my ass, so I can't make any promises.
> 
> -The painting referenced [you know, in case it wasn't obvious from how I beat you over the head with the symbolism] is [The Scream](http://www.edvardmunch.org/images/paintings/the-scream.jpg) by Edvard Munch.
> 
> -Here is a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/strange-towns/playlist/0s7mQjp5Hyw7uAW7PgeAik) for Part I, if you’re interested.
> 
> -And, last but not least, a huge thank you to everyone who has given this fic a chance. I appreciate your support and kind words more than I can say. I really hope you've enjoyed it so far, and that you enjoy where it goes from here <3


	5. Part II - keep your head down low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Some things never change."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes: alcohol, recreational drug use, casual misogyny/homophobia, and general teen boy ignorance. Tags have been updated accordingly. Please let me know if there’s anything I’ve missed.
> 
> Also, a quick word about the update schedule - as of now the plan is to try to update weekly at least until the end of PII. However, this month is an incredibly busy one for me so I might have to shift to updates every other week. I appreciate your understanding and patience as I try to sort my shit out.

**II. keep your head down low**

 

_i._

If you asked Isak why he’s currently smoking a shitty bong in a bathtub, he wouldn’t be able to tell you.

Actually, that’s a lie. He knows exactly how this happened. It’s all Jonas’ fault. Jonas was the one who told him about this party. Jonas is the one who wanted him to go. Last chance to turn up before school starts up again, according to him.

“There’s going to be weed and hot first year girls and maybe even hot third year girls,” he’d said. He was grinning in that typical no-pressure-but-I’d-be-mighty-glad-to-see-you-there way of his.

And Isak smiled back, and said, “Fuck yeah, where else would I be?” because apparently after all this time he still doesn’t know how to say no to the people he gives a shit about.

And that was that.

All things considered, this isn’t actually that bizarre of a scenario to find himself in. He’s just not sure why Jonas’ priorities are the way they are.

Not that he’d mind hooking up with a hot girl. Like, if a hot girl came up to him and asked him if he wanted to make out, he wouldn’t exactly complain about it or anything. But he’s not going to put any effort into asking people if they want to put their face on his face, either. That’s not really his style.

Then again, some weekends he actually does try, if he feels like shutting up the losers he calls his friends. Sometimes they can get really annoying about it, like when they give him shit for not practicing what he preaches or whatever. And sometimes it feels like they’re constantly watching him, just waiting for the next time he fucks up with a chick. They’re looking for another thing to laugh about, he guesses, another thing to make the night more interesting. There’s a strange satisfaction to be had in proving he’s not that thing, and he never will be.

But other weekends, like this one, he just doesn’t really feel like thinking about how to get other people to hook up with him, and that kind of outweighs everything else. There’s nothing wrong with it, he’s pretty sure. Seventeen year old boys occasionally have other things to worry about than girls and sex, right?

(Right.)

His friends certainly don’t seem to think so. As Isak takes a drag from the bong, the smoke billowing out of his lungs a familiar burn up his throat, Jonas nudges his arm and says, “So who do you have your eye on tonight?”

Isak frowns at him. Why he’s wearing sunglasses indoors - at night, no less - is really beyond him. But Jonas is a free spirit - or something? - so he supposes he shouldn’t question it.

“No one,” he says.

Mahdi, on his other side, coughs out a laugh. “Wow, really? You think you’re too good for these girls or something?”

“Exactly.” Isak cracks a smile. “Someone gets it.”

“Wow.” Mahdi snorts. “A bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”

Isak lets the smile turn into a smirk. “It’s the truth.”

“Just saying,” Mahdi says, shaking his head, “chicks probably aren’t into that shit.”

Isak’s about to say, _I don’t mind_ , before it hits him how stupid that would sound. He gives the bong a long, hard look. Trying to be careful with your words when you’re high off your ass seems like a pointless endeavor, but he has to try, at least.

“I’ve got my eye on that hot blonde in our year,” Magnus pipes up from the corner of the room, unprompted.

Isak squints at him. “You know, I don’t think you’re her type,” he says, even though he has no idea who Magnus is talking about. There are a lot of blonde girls in their year, and hell if Isak has any idea what Magnus considers “hot”.

(Or anyone else, for that matter.)

Magnus shrugs, taking it in stride. “So whose type am I?”

Isak grins. “Your mom’s.”

Magnus grimaces, even as the other two burst into raucous laughter.

(Would they have found it funny if they weren’t high? Who knows? Weed changes everything, apparently.)

“Okay, no, but for real, bro,” Jonas says, insistent on this issue for some reason Isak can’t guess, “what’s _your_ type?”

Isak takes another long drag. No one’s asked for the bong in a while, which he doesn’t mind. He feels like he’s guarding the weed for some stupid ass reason, like if he pledges to protect this awful bong with his life he doesn’t actually have to get up and do anything else because he already has something he’s responsible for. Right now it feels like the greatest aspiration he’s ever had.

(He’d chide himself for wishful thinking, but honestly, this goes beyond wishful thinking. This is just pathetic, even for him.)

“There’s one girl I can think of,” he says, slowly. “Short hair. First year. Cute.”

For half a second, he thinks the boys might ask for more details - or, god forbid, a _name_ \- but Mahdi just claps his hands together and says, “He speaks!”

“Oh, shit,” Magnus says, clearly thinking hard about this, “brown hair, face like Natalie Portman, right?”

Isak nods.

(The fewer words he has to say about this, the better.)

Jonas makes a thoughtful noise. “Think I might have seen her around tonight, actually.”

“Hey, there’s your chance,” Magnus says, excitement creeping into his voice. “Aren’t you glad you came out with us tonight?”

“Nah,” Isak says. “Watching Narcos for the millionth time would be more interesting than hanging out with your ugly asses.”

“Excuse me?” Magnus says. “Did you just call me ugly?”

“Come on, Isak, give a guy some credit,” Mahdi says. “On a scale from one to ten, Magnus is definitely a solid five.”

“Hey, now, a seven, I’m at least a seven. And did we all just miss the part where Isak said Netflix is better than _us_?”

“Oh, man, you guys should’ve seen him when we first met,” Jonas says with a laugh. “Always told me to fuck off when I asked if he wanted to chill. Took him forever to finally think I was good enough for him.”

“Some things never change,” Mahdi says, wide grin betraying his mockingly serious tone.

Isak lets out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “Some things never change.”

-

The rest of the night comes and goes in a predictable blur. Isak doesn’t remember much of it. That would probably be the alcohol at work.

(Or he just doesn’t feel like trying. Same difference, honestly.)

He does remember smoking some more until they run out of the weed. Getting up to look for beer. There’s a girl somewhere in there. Hushed voices clogging up his ears, and eyes burning on the back of his head. They kiss. The boys go away. He pushes her off of him with a laugh, tells her he’s going to get them more drinks. He loses her in the crowd. And then the cops show up at some point? There’s a bike chase? Or something?

Not that the details matter, in the end. If he’s forgotten how this Friday night went, he has a hundred others to fill in the blanks with.

(Some things never change, indeed.)

-

The hangover he wakes up with the next morning is stunning. It hurts to open his eyes. Hurts to move, if he’s being particularly dramatic.

Or hurts to be.

He tries to reserve that particular kind of pain for when he’s being his most dramatic, but he figures with a hangover like this he deserves to indulge in it at least a little.

He reaches for his phone, more out of instinct than because of any conscious choice. He has a couple of new notifications. Some incomprehensible bullshit from the group chat he’s in with the boys. One message from his mother and one from his father, both of which he leaves unread. An email. He opens it.

It’s nothing interesting, just a message from school, but as he’s about to close the app, something catches his eye - the pinned email at the top of his inbox. He doesn’t open it. He doesn’t need to open it to know what it says.

He sighs. Flings the phone away from him without bothering to switch it off. Presses his fists to his eyes and rubs them hard.

(Speaking of pains he shouldn’t indulge in.)

The door flies open.

“Morning, sunshine,” Eskild says, grinning down at him like it’s not eight in the morning and Isak doesn’t want to die.

Isak throws a pillow at him. “What the fuck do you want?”

Eskild effortlessly dodges the makeshift projectile. “Rent’s due soon,” he says breezily.

Isak stares at him. “And you came all the way in here just to tell me that.”

“Yup. I’m an amazing flatmate, I know. You can hold the applause.” Eskild walks into the room, and his toe nudges against Isak’s phone on the floor. He bends down to pick it up.

“Even Bech Næsheim,” he reads out. “Who’s that?”

Ah, fuck. He’d forgotten to close the app. He reaches out and snatches the phone out of Eskild’s hand. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to snoop?” Isak mumbles.

“Nope,” Eskild says cheerfully. “There’s going to be pancakes for breakfast, just so you know. Figured even your ungrateful never-pays-rent-on-time ass would appreciate them.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Jesus, I’ll get the rent to you, okay? Piss off.”

“Never,” Eskild calls over his shoulder as he leaves the room. Rude asshole.

Still. Isak can’t say no to pancakes. The asshole does have a soft spot. Isak lets himself smile at the thought as he looks back down at his phone. It fades away when he registers that he still, for some goddamn reason, has his email open. It stares up at him in small black type like a dispassionate accusation.

It’s stupid, though. Just stupid. Why does he still have that email pinned? It’s from months ago - around his birthday, actually, because that’s all it is, a simple _Happy birthday! :)_ , doesn’t even have a signature, and when he got it he didn’t know what to say, and he still doesn’t - and he can tell himself he’ll get around to thinking of something to say all he wants but he knows he’s just not going to.

(He knew that the minute he got it.)

His finger hovers over the unpin icon.

Last spring, Isak logged onto Facebook and searched for Even. Not to message him or anything, just to check up on what he was up to. He did that, occasionally. Sometimes he’d do or think of something that for some reason reminded him of the guy, and then he’d have to see what Even was doing just because it’d been so long since the last time he thought about him.

That time, it was coffee. Isak had gotten into the habit of drinking it back when things were so shit at home that sleepless nights had become an inevitability. One day, on a whim, he’d tried it without sugar or cream. He hated it. Who in their right mind would ever take their coffee black? But he knew the answer to that almost before he even finished thinking the question.

(It’s not the most ridiculous thing that’s ever reminded him of Even. He still felt like an idiot.)

He’d been expecting a couple of new pictures of Even and his girlfriend, maybe some of those weird hipster photos and video clips he sometimes posted. But Isak didn’t find any of that. In fact, nothing came up when he searched Even’s name. He frowned and tried again, just in case he’d misspelled it. He hadn’t. He  went through his whole friends list. Nothing. As far as he could tell, Even had deleted his entire Facebook account.

Isak thought about asking him about it, but only briefly. After all, if he got a random message from someone he used to know years ago demanding why he’d done something that wasn’t their business, he’d definitely be creeped out. And then there was the question of how he’d message him. Texting was way too personal, and there was no guarantee Even still had the same number. Isak hadn’t messaged Even on Skype in years. And email was reserved for Christmas wishes and birthday messages - brief, four-times-a-year reminders that they remembered the other person exists. Maybe Even deleted that account, too. Maybe he just didn’t use it anymore. There was no good way to know for sure.

It used to be easier than this. They didn’t even have to try. Not when they saw each other every day. And when Even first left, it was still easy. The emails came regularly, those trademark long rambles from Even about his new life, and Isak would hardly have to think before sending over the perfect casual insult. He supposes he thought it would always be that easy.

(Then again, he was thirteen. Thirteen year olds have a terrible concept of what it actually means to grow the fuck up.)

A few months after the Facebook incident, Isak got this email, and when he saw the name on the notification, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. If nothing else, it was a sign, small as it might be, that Even was still alive.

(Those were hard to come by, these days.)

 _Thanks_ , he thought about sending back. _Are you doing well? It’s cool you still remember what day I was born._

It was difficult to think of an answer that wouldn’t be awkward as hell. He pinned the email so he wouldn’t forget it existed and resolved to figure it out later, when he actually had the time to do so.

(That’s what he told himself all the other times Even messaged him, too.)

Now, Isak stares at the letters on the screen. There’s not really much point in having the email pinned, but there’s not really much point in unpinning it, either. It’s a pointless fucking thing to think about.

Isak takes his finger away from the unpin icon and falls back onto his bed.

 _Even Bech Næsheim_. Christ. He hasn’t thought that name in a long time.

-

 **Magnus Fossbakken** ****  
_plz tell me someone in this chat got lucky last night_ _  
_ _i need to live vicariously off you guys_

 **Jonas Vasquez** **  
** _Dude that’s a little creepy_

 **Mahdi Disi** **  
** _Only a little??_

 **Magnus Fossbakken** ****  
_Isak! you hooked up with that 1 girl right_ _  
_ _how’d it go???_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Okay I guess_

 **Magnus Fossbakken** **  
** **_‘_ ** _okay’????? you guess?????????_

 **Mahdi Disi** **  
** _King Isak is hard to please_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _I don’t remember that much about it haha_

 **Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_Damn. Stone cold_ _  
_ _That bad?_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Nah nothing like that_ _  
_ _Hangover’s just kicking my ass_

 **Magnus Fossbakken** ****  
_tsk_ _  
_ _alcohol ruins everything_

 **Mahdi Disi** **  
** _Said no one ever_

-

 **Jonas Vasquez** **  
** _Hey you ok?_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Aside from my brain feeling like it’s setting itself on fire you mean_

 **Jonas Vasquez** **  
** _yikes_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_I just don’t know why this question is necessary when it’s a given that I’m suffering_  
_I mean I appreciate the concern though_ _  
__Sorry I just realized that first text made me sound like an asshole_

 **Jonas Vasquez** **  
** _It’s okay you always sound like an asshole_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Wow fuck you too_

 **Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_I don’t know you just seemed kind of off in the group chat_ _  
_ _I’ll leave you alone if I was wrong though_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Nah it’s chill_  
_I really do appreciate you asking_  
_Just… got tons of stuff going on_  
_Family stuff and everything_ _  
__Didn’t realize it was that obvious_

 **Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_Don’t worry it’s not_ _  
_ _I just noticed because “haha”? From you? Who is allergic to everything happy and good in this world?_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _I changed my mind you can definitely leave me alone now_

 **Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_For real though. You don’t have to be left alone if you don’t want to_ _  
_ _We’ve got your back okay?_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Yeah okay_ _  
_ _Thanks_

-

 **Eskild Tryggvason** ****  
_Hello dear Isak. This is a friendly reminder to PLEASE WASH YOUR DISHES THEY’VE BEEN IN THE SINK FOR A WEEK_  
_Also might I suggest you get some nice air freshener or a candle for your room because it smells like boy feet._  
_Also if you don’t get your rent in on time I will kill you in your sleep._ _  
__Thank you <3 <3 <3_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Eskild I’m literally right here_ _  
_ _Like two rooms away_

 **Eskild Tryggvason** **  
** _Thought you wanted me to piss off hmmmmmm?_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Only because your face is the last thing I want to see in the morning_

 **Eskild Tryggvason** **  
** _Wow. Why do I keep you in this flat again? It can’t be because of your stunning charm._

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _It’s 100% because of my stunning charm_

 **Eskild Tryggvason** ****  
_Okay, sure, whatever helps you sleep better at night._ _  
_ _There are extra pancakes on the counter by the way, for whenever you decide to drag your lazy ass out of bed._

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _I on the other hand know exactly why I keep you around_

 **Eskild Tryggvason** **  
** _I knew you were just using me for my world class breakfast food :( :(_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Anyway I promise I’ll get rent in on time this month_ _  
_ _Having trouble with the parents but I’ll get it okay?_

 **Eskild Tryggvason** ****  
_Okay, okay, I believe you_ _  
_ _Will save the body bag for another day, I guess </3 _

-

Theoretically, Isak should be using the weekend to get ready for the new school year, or at least to hang out with his friends before they don’t have as much time to do so. In practice, he spends most of it in his room, scrolling aimlessly through the internet with a mounting sense of doom hovering over his head. It mostly comes from not doing the things he has to do, he guesses. Because of course the things he has to do are the things he wants to do the least.

Once upon a time, he might have been excited for the start of the school year. It used to mean more time out of his house, back when he still lived with his parents. And although it also meant less time he could spend with friends, it made the time they did spend together seem all the more precious. He doesn’t know when that stopped being true.

(Or maybe he knows all too well. He’s not sure which he thinks is worse.)

Now, the thought of school is already enough to make him feel tired. At school, they expect you to act a certain way, to be a certain kind of person. But what happens when that kind of person isn’t who you actually are? What takes precedence?

(That’s yet another thing he used to know how to feel. Being comfortable with the idea of who he is.)

At this point, he’s had enough practice to have a reasonably good handle on the answers to those questions. That way of thinking didn’t used to come easily to him, but now it’s all he ever thinks about. What to say and how to say it. Anything to not stick out.

(Anything so people will stop fucking looking at him.)

Sometimes, it gets exhausting. Sometimes, he wishes everything, all the noise in his head and all the noise around him, could stop. Just for a little while. That’s all he wants. He’s pretty sure that’s not asking for much.

But he doesn’t think he can stop.

He doesn’t think he knows how.

-

Sunday night, he finally buckles down and calls his father to ask for rent money.

It goes about as well as one would expect.

After it’s over, he sinks down on his mattress, head falling into his shaking hands and his phone pressing coldly against his forehead. Breathe, he tells himself impatiently. Fucking breathe, you idiot. It’s not important. It’s not a big deal. What the fuck are you like this for?

Actually, he knows exactly what the fuck he’s like this for. It’s such a stupid reason.

 _You should visit your mother soon_ , his father had said. _For me?_

Isak hadn’t had the patience or the energy or the goddamn words to tell him all the reasons why that was a bad idea. Instead, he’d closed his eyes and let the anger and the hurt simmer inside himself, inside the aching silence. After a while, his father had given up and dropped the call. _Good riddance_ , he’d tried to think, but for some reason it was hard to voice those words even to himself.

God, he thinks, breath trembling out of his lungs. Being a teenager is the fucking worst.

-

He knows if he wants to actually fall asleep tonight, being on his phone in the dark is really not the best way to achieve that.  But it’s either that or stare at the ceiling, and between the two choices at least if he’s on his phone he can focus on something other than his own thoughts.

(Or, at the very least, he can pretend to.)

Usually on a night like this, he’ll be messaging the group chat or scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. Tonight, for some reason, he’s got his email pulled up on his phone. He’s not going to answer it or anything. It’s too late for that. Ever since he was reminded of the existence of Even’s last email, though, he can’t stop thinking about it. He does that a lot. For a while he’ll forget that Even had messaged him, and then something small and harmless will happen that reminds him, and then it’ll be the only thing he can think of for a while. It’s an endless cycle.

(It’s only natural though, right? He used to think about Even a lot, back when they were kids. Thinking about him now is probably just an old habit dying hard.)

Isak isn’t sure when, exactly, things changed between them. After Even left, Isak found other friends to spend his time with. Even actively encouraged him to. He was always delighted whenever Isak told him about a new friend, back when they still talked about things like that. It wasn’t the friends, then. He never got the impression Even felt like Isak was replacing him or anything.

(He hopes that Even knew there’s no one in the world who could replace him, anyway. Whether he knows it now is a moot point, but at the very least he should have known it back then.)

So if it wasn’t friends, it was something else. A lot of things were happening at the time. There was school and family bullshit and life in general. None of it seemed like stuff you could explain over text. He used to have a list of all the things he was going to tell Even in person the next time they properly saw each other. Every day he would add stuff to it, and every day he’d tell himself he was just saving it all for a better time.

(When did he stop keeping it? He doesn’t know that, either.)

But that was it, probably. The shit he meant to tell Even later kept on happening, and it became harder to keep up with it. Eventually, he guesses, he just stopped trying. It’s easy to put things off when they’re small, but when they’re that small you don’t notice the way they pile up. You don’t notice how something small has become a whole mountain until you’re standing under it. And by the time you notice that, well, by then it’s just too late, isn’t it?

(Though that’s probably to be expected. Four years is an awfully long time for any friendship to survive even when you don’t have to contend with the universe actively trying to fuck you over.

And the universe has done many things to him in the last four years; being kind is certainly not one of them.)

Isak rolls over on his back and cradles his phone to his chest. He hasn’t heard from Even since this last email, and that’s to be expected, too. Still, Isak can’t help but wonder what Even is up to now. He will have graduated high school at this point, which means he’s most likely about to start his first year at university. Probably decided to stay in Stavanger because that’s what’s easiest. Maybe he’s going to some fancy school to study film. Isak hopes so, anyway. It’s what he’d always wanted to do back then.

There’s a lot of other things Isak hopes for, too. If Even is still with his girlfriend, Isak hopes they’re doing well together. He hopes Even has friends he can talk to, friends who actually respond to his messages and don’t make up shitty excuses for it. Friends who are good to him.

And however Even is doing, wherever he might be, whatever he’s thinking about right now, Isak hopes he’s happy.

(He really does.)

-

The first day of school is a little like hell, but that’s nothing new.

In English, he almost falls asleep, and the teacher catches him. She scolds him, but he can’t focus on what she’s saying. All he can think about the whole time is how goddamn tired he is.

In biology, the teacher decides to randomly assign them partners. He gets Sana. He wants to think she’s cool, but she keeps on staring at him like she’s just waiting for him to fuck up. Which, fair. Some days, so is he. But he’s pretty sure he didn’t do anything that incriminating this past weekend aside from spilling a fuckton of beer on the floor and forgetting to clean it up. Actually, that’s pretty tame for his usual Friday.

“Is that what you’re mad at me for?” he says to her. “Because I didn’t clean up the mess?”

“It was Eva’s _house_ , Isak,” Sana says, unsmiling. “You need to show your friends some more respect.”

“Geez, sorry,” Isak says, holding up his hands. “I’ll bring some paper towels next time if it matters that much.”

Sana narrows her eyes. “Just be glad you didn’t do anything worse.”

(Honestly, knowing her, he really does pity the Isak who did.)

The class itself is fine, he supposes. Eventually, they’re able to settle into a professional sort of rhythm, and Sana actually kind of knows her shit, so he’s looking forward to not having to carry the both of them for the rest of the semester.

Still, by the time lunch rolls around, he’s completely exhausted. He wishes he was the kind of person who could cut class after he’s already gone to school. He’s fashioned a sort of fantasy about what it would be like to sink into his bed, to close his eyes and wrap himself in his duvet and just forget everything for a while. But he doesn’t like to skip unless he has a good reason, and not getting enough sleep is his own damn fault, anyway.

His friends are already deep in conversation when he approaches. It doesn’t take much to figure out what they’re talking about, because it’s pretty much what they’re always talking about - girls. Magnus is apparently on the verge of the revelation that you can, in fact, go down on them. Revolutionary. Isak collapses into his chair and unwraps his lunch.

(One thing Isak has learned in the past four years:

No one actually expects you to talk about girls all the time if they think you know what you’re doing when it comes to hooking up with them.

Funny how that works.)

Though ‘not all the time’ doesn’t exactly mean ‘none of the time’. Magnus is currently looking at him expectantly, which means he wants him to weigh in on something Isak could not give less of a fuck about. Fantastic.

“Er,” Isak says, intelligently. “What?”

“He wants to know if you’ve ever seen pussy,” Jonas says, as if it’s a totally normal thing to ask a guy a question like that, which, oh yeah, it actually kind of is.

(God. He wants to think it’s too early for this conversation, but it’s already past fucking noon.)

“More than you,” Isak says, raising an eyebrow. He goes for an enigmatic tone. Cool, maybe a little dick-ish. It’s honestly not his best effort, but Magnus doesn’t seem to notice. He just groans.

“Of course you have,” he says. “Guys, I’m doomed to be forever alone.”

“Bro, calm down,” Mahdi says. “You’re _seventeen_.”

“Almost seventeen,” Magnus corrects.

“My point exactly,” Mahdi says. He claps a hand on Magnus’s shoulder. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

“And the single life is great,” Jonas points out. “Own that shit, bro.”

Magnus scoffs. “Easy for you to say, when you hook up with girls every other fucking weekend.”

After that, the conversation launches easily into a detailed account of Jonas’ alleged hook ups. Isak lets himself tune out the noise. He made his contribution, now he gets to eat in peace, and he’s going to savor the opportunity with relish.

He misses the days his friends knew how to talk about things other than who they wanted to sleep with. Not that those conversations were mind-blowingly brilliant. Actually, he remembers anything but – dumbass jokes and playful insults and endless, meaningless banter. But surely that at least means he used to know how to have a good time without mentioning someone’s genitals every five seconds.

Briefly, he considers telling his friends to shut up. _News flash, guys, you’re actually all boring as fuck. Can’t you think of something else to talk about?_

He dismisses the thought almost as soon as it comes. They’d almost certainly take it the wrong way. _What you don't want to talk about girls? Are you gay or something?_

Frankly, he’s just tired of talking about the same damn thing every goddamn day. But try explaining that to a bunch of hormonal teenage boys.

(There’s something really kind of depressing about feeling nostalgic for when you were thirteen years old. When that’s the peak of your life, you’re probably doing something horribly wrong.)

He would like to think there’s at least one person in this room who can think of something interesting to talk about. He’d like to think he can have that much faith in humanity, or at the least in high schoolers. As he eats his sandwich, he looks around the room and tries to guess what people are talking about. It’s a dumb game, but at least it’s keeping him awake, as opposed to what he could be paying attention to instead.

Sana and Eva and Vilde are all circled around a table, leaning in toward each other. They seem to be really into whatever they’re talking about. All likelihood points toward the topic being Russ or the revue or something equally stupid, but they could also be talking about world domination. He doesn’t doubt Sana could come up with something scarily brilliant, and Eva and Vilde may seem nice, but he believes they could get their way too, if they really wanted.

There’s a gaggle of first year girls close by. One of them killed a fuckboy last night, he decides, and now the rest of them are conspiring to help hide the body. He squints, trying to figure out which one he thinks committed the murder, but upon closer inspection, he thinks he might spot one of the girls he hooked up with last Friday among their ranks. Shit. Quickly he looks away so he doesn’t have to find out.

His eyes land on a guy sitting at a table by himself. Isak frowns. He doesn’t think he recognizes him, although he can’t be too sure. All he can see right now is the back of his head. Still, there’s something that’s vaguely familiar about the way he’s sitting, legs all stretched out and his arm curled casually around the back of the chair next to him. Or maybe it’s the set of his shoulders, completely and utterly relaxed. Or maybe it’s the way he’s tapping a pencil against his thigh, slow, rhythmic. It’s how you’d expect a movie star to carry himself, Isak thinks; smooth, confident, not too cocky but clearly comfortable in his skin. There’s no way he’s a first year. But there’s no way Isak’s seen him around before now.

(Isak would remember a guy like that.)

He’s not talking to anyone right now, but Isak can’t imagine what he would say if he did.

(Poetry, maybe. Unfathomable poetry.)

In a sudden burst of motion, the guy twists around and looks behind him, over his shoulder. Almost effortlessly, his eyes lock onto Isak’s, as if he knew exactly where they were. The corner of his mouth lifts up, and he raises his eyebrows, and this, now this Isak would know from anywhere, would know even if there was more separating them than the span of a cafeteria and four years, even if it was a thousand miles and a whole century. Even if it was an infinity. The recognition hits his heart like a thunderbolt.

Even.

Isak feels his eyes widen. His breath feels lodged in his throat. His whole being feels frozen in time. He feels thirteen again, just for a second, clutching the handlebars of his bike as Even looks at him with a challenge lighting up his eyes.

(But of course he isn’t. And of course Even isn’t either.)

Slowly, like honey dripping down the side of a jar, Even’s smile grows bigger. That, too, Isak knows like he knows the beat of his own heart. Knows like an instinct. Like a well-worn dream.

He looks away. His pulse pounds so hard in his veins he can barely register anything else, can barely feel anything other than the thunder in his chest, the roaring in his ears, the twisting, inexplicable warmth blooming in his gut. He can’t believe it. He can’t fucking believe it. Even Bech Næsheim, here, in front of his very eyes. He hardly even remembers what that used to feel like.

But this makes no sense. Even lives in Stavanger. Even shouldn’t be in high school anymore. Even shouldn’t _be here_.

(It took Isak years, literal years, to get used to the idea of Even not being in his life anymore. _He’s not here_ , he thought to himself, night after night. _He never will be._

He’s thought it for so long he doesn’t know if he’s capable of thinking anything else anymore.)

And it’s not like Isak had an easy time making the connection to begin with. The last pictures he saw of Even are from almost a year ago, and pictures can’t do four years of growth justice. Pictures can’t capture the essence of a living, breathing Even, just by virtue of being motionless.

But that’s what makes it obvious, isn’t it? No one moves or breathes or exists the way Even does. They just don’t. Four years can’t change something as fundamental as that.

No, this is all just wishful thinking. What, he fixates on Even for half a night and suddenly the universe decides to randomly dump him back in his life with no warning? That’s not how fate works. How could it be Even?

(But how could it not?)

What if he got up and walked up to him, just to make sure? What if he put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m Isak, do you remember me?” What would he say in return?

But god, that would probably be the most awkward thing he’s ever done in his life. Maybe he should wait until the end of the period, when his friends have left. Or maybe he could shoot him a quick message or something? Fuck, though, wouldn’t that be creepy as hell? What to do? Is there even anything to be done about this? What the fuck? What the _fuck_?

“Yo, earth to Isak,” someone says.

He blinks.

“Lunch is about to end,” Jonas reminds him, looking mildly concerned. Must have spaced out for a stupidly long time.

Isak looks down at the half-eaten sandwich in his hands. He glances back up one last time, almost afraid of what he’ll find. But Even, or whoever the fuck it may really be, has already turned around in his seat, and all he can see now is the back of his head.

God. He doesn’t have the time or the patience or the fucking energy to figure out what to do about this. His friends are looking at him expectantly. He can’t walk up to some random guy none of the rest of them even tangentially know while they’re _watching_.

Carefully, he wraps up the remains of his lunch and pushes himself out of his chair.

“Catch you boys later,” he says.

-

He can barely concentrate in his classes for the rest of the day. It’s a dumb fucking idea to jeopardize his grades over something like this, but his stupid brain won’t stop replaying the moment from the cafeteria over and over like some evil kind of broken record. It’s burned into his memory, Even’s smile.

(But then, it already was.)

Should he try to say something? Would that be weird? They haven’t properly talked in years. But Even had looked at him. He had smiled in recognition. Clearly, they know about each other. They know they exist. It would be different if they tried to ignore the fact that once upon a time, they knew each other better than anyone else in the world. But they’re not. Right? That’s what that – that _look_ meant, right?

Some small part of him is kicking himself for not doing more to keep in touch, for not trying more, for not _being_ more. It would be easier, now. It would be so much fucking easier.

He wonders if Even wishes he’d kept in touch more, too. Wonders if Even blames him for this. He thinks it would be fair if he did.

(Then again, it’s not like Even told him he’d be here, either.)

In each class, he comes up with at least five new plans of action, scrawling them at the bottom of his notes so he can keep track of the clusterfuck of his thoughts. None of them work, they’re all dumb as hell. He scratches them out with his pen. Writes more between the cramped lines. Scratches those ideas out, too. He doesn’t know what Even’s classes are. Doesn’t know where he usually hangs out. Doesn’t know jack shit about anything.

He leaves his last class utterly frustrated with himself. Maybe he shouldn't say anything at all. It’s not like that would be much different from how things were before. It’s not a big deal. One look means nothing.

(It means absolutely nothing.)

He goes into the bathroom. He walks to the sink and splashes some water on his face in the hopes that it’ll clear his head. The results are mixed. The shock of the cold certainly jolts something in his mind – something like _get this the fuck away from me_ , said in the most petulant voice possible because apparently that’s just how his fucking brain works – but irritatingly enough it does nothing for the exhaustion still clinging to his thoughts. Whatever. This is just going to have to do.

As he reaches for the paper towels, one of the stall doors creaks open. He looks behind him instinctively, the way your head turns automatically toward an unexpected noise, and catches sight of the person who emerges.

It’s Even.

Isak kind of forgets what he was doing, his hands still tangled in a paper towel, and stares. If he had any presence of mind, he’d probably kick himself for it, but the stall door bounces off Even’s shoulder as he freezes in place, and he’s staring, too.

There’s no doubt that it’s him now that they’re this close to each other. His face isn’t that unrecognizable from the pictures, all sharp angles and pale eyebrows and bright eyes. Isak remembers that most of all, how fucking bright he used to be. He still is, even in this moment, as a surprised grin starts to spread over his face.

He’s obviously the same person, but he’s different, too. Somehow he managed to get even taller. Which is just unfair, honestly. Isak thought his own growth spurt gave him some type of advantage but apparently this is yet another thing he’ll always lose to Even at. And whereas fifteen year old Even was gangly, limbs too long for his body, nineteen year old Even owns his weirdness now, in the tilt of his head, the lift of his brows. Nineteen year old Even looks like the kind of boy who, above all else, knows himself. For better or for worse.

(That last one isn’t so different from how he was four years ago. Isak just isn’t used to it anymore.)

Isak’s heart seems to be doing that annoying thing again where it can’t seem to calm the fuck down, like it’s punching itself in the face over and over again. The tightness in his chest is a little uncomfortable. Makes it kind of hard to breathe. It’s just Even, he tries to tell the useless organ in his chest. That doesn’t seem to make much of a difference.

It occurs to him that he’s probably spent way too long staring at Even and not enough time trying to figure out what to do about this stilted silence. He clears his throat.

“Hey,” he says.

Even tilts his head. It’s a graceful gesture, carefully measured.

(Isak isn’t used to that, either.)

“Hey,” Even says back.

There’s a bubble of something Isak can’t name inside his chest, and it’s been growing inside him for half the day and he didn’t even know it until now. Now it 's almost painful against his ribcage, and he wants it to go away, but he doesn’t know how to make it.

(Say something, his whole brain is screaming. Fucking _say something_.

It’s screaming so loud he can’t think of anything else.)

Even looks down at the floor, and then back up at him. He purses his lips. Then he smiles again.

“Haven’t left yet?” he says. “Who’d have thought there would ever be a time when Isak Valtersen didn’t do his best to leave school as fast as possible?”

And just like that, as if it’s the easiest goddamn thing in the world to do, the bubble pops.

And the deafening silence in Isak’s head fades away, too.

Isak laughs. It feels good. Better than he expected.

(Just as good as he remembered.)

“Fuck off,” he says. “Hypocrite.”

“Me? A hypocrite?” Even brings a hand to his chest, his eyes widening. “Such accusations.”

“You’re here, too, aren’t you?” Isak points out. He can’t stop himself from smiling. Can’t help but feel some type of relief at it.

Even grins back at him. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he says. “There’s just something about this bathroom. I can’t help myself.”

“Gross,” Isak laughs again. Can’t stop himself from doing that, either. “Good to know you’re just as creepy as always.”

“Some things never change,” Even says gravely. But his smile hasn’t quite faded away yet, and it betrays him. He’s enjoying this just as much as Isak is.

(Some things never change. For once, Isak is glad for it.)

“Some things do,” Isak says, just to be a little shit.

Briefly, he wonders if Even will take offense to that. If it’ll upset him.

Even huffs out a laugh, and there’s no anger in it. His eyes are soft and warm, just like they used to be. Just like they always were.

“Do they really?” Even says.

But there’s an edge to them, now, too. Something like a question. Like uncertainty.

(Isak doesn’t remember ever seeing that.)

“Well,” Isak says. “You did get taller.”

Even laughs again. “Still taller than you,” he says.

“Yeah,” Isak sighs. “Fuck you for that.”

For a moment, Even doesn’t answer. He just looks at Isak like he’s taking him all in. Then, the corner of his mouth lifts higher.

“Where do you live, by the way?” he says. “Still in the same place? I could walk you home for old time’s sake.”

“No,” Isak says. He realizes, with a start, that he’s still holding the paper towel. He tosses the stupid thing in the trash and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Moved out a couple months ago, actually. I’m living with some flatmates now.”

Even lifts his eyebrows. “Ah.”

It’s now that the awkwardness decides to reappear. Isak lowers his gaze, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t need to explain himself. Even could probably guess why his living situation is the way it is now.

(Then again, could he?)

“I can still walk you home,” Even says.

Isak looks up at him. He’s still smiling, gently now.

“Seriously?” Isak says.

“Yeah.” Even’s eyes are gleaming. “I am nothing if not the most honorable of gentlemen.”

Isak has to roll his eyes at that, even as his pulse jumps inexplicably in his chest.

“I take the tram, usually,” Isak says. “Line 12.”

Even’s face lights up into a full-blown grin. Objectively speaking, it’s nothing Isak hasn’t seen before, but for a full second, it catches him off guard. He hadn’t been expecting it at all. It’s overwhelming, for that second. Utterly overwhelming.  

It’s the fact that he hasn’t witnessed it in so long, probably. Like if he saw sunshine for the first time in four years.

(Though, astonishingly enough, this doesn’t feel new. On the contrary, it feels like an old habit. Once-forgotten; newly remembered. Like waking up from an incomprehensible dream.)

“That’s the line I take, actually,” Even says. “You want to go, then?”

The moment passes. Isak finds himself grinning back.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isak hazards another glance at Even. He’s already looking at him - did he ever stop looking? - and he meets Isak’s gaze steadily. If it was someone else, Isak might look away. But he finds he doesn’t want to. He remembers this, the memory of it a solid weight in his chest. Like it was buried somewhere inside him, but now, somehow, it’s not. It feels like it’s been there this whole time. This feeling of being looked at, and looking back.

_ii._

When they climb onto the tram, it’s almost empty. Even takes his seat next to Isak, their arms brushing lightly against each other. Isak resists the urge to flinch away, the one he usually gets when someone else draws too close. This is Even, after all. He shouldn’t be afraid of someone like Even.

(Even if Isak still can’t think of anything to say.)

Though it’s not for lack of things he wants to say. There are questions buzzing around in the back of Isak’s mind, a fuckton of them.

_How come you’re in Oslo? Why are you at Nissen? Aren’t you supposed to have graduated already? What about your parents? Your Stavanger friends? Your girlfriend? Are they here, too? Are they even in your life anymore?_

_Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?_

For now, he decides to keep them to himself. Some things are easier to think than to say out loud.

(He learned that one the hard way.)

Even’s laughing at something. Isak must have missed the joke.

Isak kicks his ankle. For half a second he wonders if it’ll feel weird. It doesn’t.

“What are you laughing at?” Isak says.

Even grins at him. He must not think it’s weird, either.

“You,” Even says. “You look so serious. Talk about resting bitch face.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you to fuck off before you actually listen?”

“Never,” Even says. “I’ll never fuck off.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that one out for myself already,” Isak says. “Years ago.”

Even laughs again, softly. “Yeah. Years ago.”

It’s just three words, but behind them are a hundred different things he could mean. It occurs to Isak that he doesn’t know which meaning is the right one. Once again, he finds himself at a loss for what to say.

He folds his arms to his chest and shifts a little in his seat. If he just knew what was safe to talk about, and what should be left alone. When they were younger, he never had to think about any of that. But some things really do change, don’t they? After four years, they have to. He feels a little stupid for hoping that they haven’t.

Even nudges Isak’s arm lightly with his own. The contact is enough of a surprise that his heart stutters a little in his chest, as gentle and innocuous as Even’s touch is.

“Speaking of years ago,” Even says, “you remember that running bet we used to have? Every time we had a competition? Loser does what winner says?”

(God. Leave it to Even to pierce through all of Isak’s doubts as if they didn’t exist at all.)

Isak snorts. “Of course I do. Who do you think I am?” He turns his face toward the window. “You used to call it the Challenge Clause. What a dumb fucking name.”

“And do you remember,” Even says, very seriously, “how you were literally always the loser and you literally always had to do what I said?”

“Excuse me?” Isak twists his head around to glare at Even indignantly. He has a biting remark ready on the tip of his tongue, but Even quirks an eyebrow, eyes bright with humor, and something jolts inside Isak’s chest, something frustratingly nameless, and the words die in the back of his throat.

“You were always such a sore loser,” Even says. The corner of his mouth twitches. The asshole. He’s clearly trying not to laugh.

Isak looks away, using an eye roll as his excuse. “And what about that time I stayed over at your place for a week?” he says. “And you spent the whole time trying to figure out a punishment just to tell me to have a good day like a lame ass? Guess you suck at winning, too.”

For a moment, he almost regrets bringing it up. Surely being reminded of something like that, something so juvenile, would feel awkward as hell. But Even only huffs out another laugh.

“How are your parents, by the way?” Even says. “Are they doing well?”

There’s no way Even could know how pointless that question is, so Isak can’t exactly blame him for asking it. Still, he’s not sure he can find it in himself to explain. It’s hard enough just to think about it.

 _Actually, no,_ Isak briefly contemplates saying, _since you moved away my mother’s only gotten crazier and my father decided it was too much for his weak ass to handle and just left the whole clusterfuck behind. As if he had nothing to do with it, as if he could just decide it wasn’t his fucking problem anymore. But when he left, I didn’t wonder, “Why?” I wondered, “What took you so long?”_

_Then I left, and I wondered the same damn thing._

_So, in summary, no one’s doing well at all. Thanks for asking, though. At least no one’s screaming at each other anymore. There’s no one left to scream at._

(Honestly, he can’t even imagine what that would sound like out loud.)

Isak shrugs. “I guess. I don’t talk to them much, since I moved out.”

“Ah.”

Isak hazards another glance at Even. He’s already looking at him - did he ever stop looking? - and he meets Isak’s gaze steadily. If it was someone else, Isak might look away. But he finds he doesn’t want to. He remembers this, the memory of it a solid weight in his chest. Like it was buried somewhere inside him, but now, somehow, it’s not. It feels like it’s been there this whole time. This feeling of being looked at, and looking back.

Isak clears his throat. “And what about you? What have you been up to? You go to Nissen now?”

“Oh, well.” Even, at last, looks away, down at the hands in his lap. Isak decides he’s glad for it. There’s only so much you can take when the full force of Even’s attention is turned on you. It’s better appreciated in smaller doses. “Yeah, I guess I do. You want to know why?”

Isak nods, curious despite himself.

“Well, there’s this new drug they’re trying to get all the kids hooked on,” Even says. “Like, you get this amazing high on it, but the withdrawal symptoms are _terrible_. Hallucinations, tremors, the whole shebang. You could seriously ruin your life if you get addicted.”

“Uh huh,” Isak says, unsure what this has to do with Even going to Nissen.

“And - you can’t tell anyone about this, okay?” Even says, raising his eyebrows.

“... Uh huh?”

“The cops have hired me as an undercover agent on the case,” Even says in a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, because I’m all young and dashingly good looking? My life is basically 21 Jump Street.”

And okay, Isak probably should have seen from the beginning where this was going, but he’s admittedly out of practice when it comes to spotting Even’s bullshit, so he feels like he deserves to be cut some slack.

“Oh my god, you’re so full of shit.” Isak shoves at Even’s shoulder, just for good measure.

Even doubles over laughing. He’s close enough Isak can almost feel the shaking of his body against his. “I had you, though, you know I had you.”

“You wish,” Isak sniffs, though he can’t help but smile, either. “I was on to you from the start.”

“Yeah, sure.” Even straightens up and wipes at his eyes. “Yeah, I’m a third year at Nissen. Hm, what else am I doing? I make films. Or I try to.” He flashes Isak a smile. “Just like you always said I would.”

Warmth blooms in Isak’s chest. It’s almost enough to forget that this isn’t a proper explanation.

(Then again, if Even wants to give one, he will. Isak is sure of that, even if he’s not sure of much else right now.)

“That’s great,” Isak says. “Really. I knew you could do it.”

“Yeah. I mean, nothing professional for now, but that’s the dream, isn’t it?” Even leans his head back against the headrest. “And I still do art, a little. I don’t know if you still remember those comics I used to do for you, you probably don’t have them anymore, but - “

“Wait,” Isak interrupts, affronted. “Excuse you, I definitely do still have your dumb comics.”

Even raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, are you kidding me, I have a whole box of them at home. Actually - “ Isak sticks his hand in his pocket and takes out his wallet. He rifles through the flaps and pulls out what he was looking for with a triumphant noise. “I’ve got one right here.”

Even stares at him. “You’re shitting me.”

“See for yourself,” Isak says, holding out the picture. This one is titled, _The boy who couldn’t hold his breath underwater_. It’s a picture of Isak because what else would it be, with a little water droplet in his throat, conveniently labeled, and x’s for eyes.

“You’re not dead, I promise,” Even assured him when he’d first given him the picture. “You’re just really, really bad at holding your breath underwater.”

“Am not,” Isak said stubbornly. “I’m the champion of holding my breath underwater.”

“Yeah?” Even said, grinning. “Prove it.”

They went to the pool the next weekend, just so Isak could make good on his promise. They had a competition which Isak, predictably, lost. He used that exact excuse, having a water droplet in his throat. Actually, Even had drawn that in later, after he’d said it. The punishment for losing that contest was to never throw away the comic for the rest of forever.

(No one can say Isak Valtersen isn’t a man of his word.)

Even takes the picture from him, wordlessly. He takes a long look at it. He actually seems rendered speechless, lips parted and eyes wide, which is honestly nothing short of incredible. Isak was starting to think it was just him.

Even leans back in his seat, and tilts his face to the ceiling. There’s a ghost of a smile on the corner of his lips, so faint Isak almost misses it.

(He doesn’t.)

“I was right, you know,” Even says.

“About what?”

Even glances back at him. The smile gets bigger, just a little. And there’s a strange look in his eyes, as familiar as it is unfathomable.

(If Isak didn’t know any better, he’d almost say it looked a little like sadness.)

“I really fucking missed you,” Even says.

It’s Isak’s turn, now, for the words inside him to dry up. He should look away. He almost wants to. But Even’s gaze feels all-encompassing. For a strange, breathless moment, it feels like there’s nothing else to look at.

And maybe he really doesn’t want to look away. Maybe he’s spent so long without this, whatever _this_ means, that he wants to spend however long he can holding onto it. Maybe he just wants to stay like this. Maybe it’s that simple.

He should say something, probably. _I missed you, too_. That should be an easy thing to say.

(And yet how could it ever be enough?)

Someone’s phone starts ringing. It’s not that loud. His heart jolts in his chest, anyway.

“Mine,” Even says with a surprised tilt of his head. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and takes the call.

Isak leans against the wall of the tram. He wishes he could give Even more privacy. As it is, he can hear almost every word he’s saying.

“Hey, mom. Yeah, I’m just headed home. Ran into Isak, actually. You remember Isak, right? Lived next to us last time we were in Oslo? We used to be best friends.”

“We are best friends,” Isak corrects, about two seconds before it fully hits him what he just said.

Even looks over at him, raising his eyebrows. Abashed, Isak looks away. He doesn’t know why he felt the need to make that clarification. He just knows that he did.

Even frowns. For a second Isak thinks he might be frowning at what Isak said before he remembers Even’s currently talking to someone else entirely.

“Can’t it wait?” he says. Even’s not the kind of person who gets easily irritated, but Isak can hear it in his voice now, the barest hint of a sharp edge.

Muffled words in response. Even sighs. “All right,” he says, resigned. “I’ll pick it up on my way home. See you soon. Yeah, love you too.”

He hangs up and tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Looks like I’ve got to get off here, actually,” he says with a rueful smile. “My stop’s coming up.”

“Oh.” Isak swallows. “Is everything okay with your mom?”

“Yeah, she just - “ Even breathes out hard and runs a hand through his hair. “I forgot something important, that’s all.” He looks over at Isak, and this time when he smiles it feels warm again. “You know, she was pretty offended I even implied she could forget about you.”

Isak laughs awkwardly. “I mean, she’s probably only saying that because I mooched off her food so much. I can’t blame her.”

“I can’t, either,” Even says. His lips are still tilted in a smile, but his eyes are serious.

Isak smiles back, for lack of anything better to do with his face.

The tram starts to slow down. Even stands up, and some wild instinct tells Isak he should reach out and grab hold of his sleeve. Tell him that Isak should go with him or something equally stupid. It occurs to Isak that Even had offered to walk him home. _Breaking promises already?_ He thinks about saying.

(But there are a lot of reasons why that would be a terrible fucking thing to say.)

So Isak says nothing at all. Even stands, and he smiles down at Isak. It’s a real smile because Even doesn’t usually smile unless he actually feels it, and Isak can tell he feels it from the way the corners of his eyes crinkle and how the smile inhabits his entire face. It’s not just an expression. It’s the way he is.

“It was good to see you again,” Even says, handing him back the drawing Isak had given him earlier. Isak had forgotten he still had it.

“You too,” Isak says. He hopes he sounds like he means it, because he does.

And just like that, with one last parting smile, Even’s gone. He didn’t even say good bye.

(But that one, at least, Isak should have seen coming.)

-

After Isak gets home, he pulls up his texting app and scrolls past the unread messages from his parents to Even’s number, buried under four years of texts to other people. When he finally finds it, though - saved under the simple and effective nickname ‘fucker’, because in four years that’s yet another thing he hasn’t bothered changing - he hesitates. Again, he can’t be sure Even has the same number. But that thought isn’t what’s really holding him back, is it? It’s not just a matter of right numbers. It’s a matter of thinking of the right thing to say.

And all the wishful thinking in the world wouldn’t be enough to convince him one conversation is enough to make all that is between them disappear.

(There’s too much of it.)

After about ten minutes of carefully revising the same text, he finally just decides to stop thinking about it and press the send button. Fuck social conventions of texting, fuck worrying his ass over something that doesn’t matter at all. Fuck everything. It’s just a text.

(It’s just a damn text.)

_Hey, this is Isak. Not sure if you still have the same number but figured it was worth a shot. I can’t believe we ran into each other today, what a crazy world we live in._

Reading over the text after he sends it makes him immediately regret it. Jesus, it’s about twenty words too long, and also what kind of person actually talks like that?

He turns his phone to silent and throws it across the room. He won’t check it until the morning. He swears.

About a minute later, he crawls over to his phone and switches on the screen. There are two unread messages.

 **Fucker** ****  
_Wait who is this again? Never met a kid named Isak in my life_ _  
_ _Just kidding lol. i can’t believe you still have my number_

Isak grins.

-

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Of course I still have your number, what do you take me for?_ _  
_ _I’m not a heathen_

 **Fucker** **  
** _Debatable_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _I know I sound like a broken record, but also: fuck you_

 **Fucker** **  
** _Music to my ears_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _And what about you? I bet you didn’t delete my number, either_

 **Fucker** **  
** _Well duh_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _So what? No moral high ground for you_

 **Fucker** **  
** _I don’t know. Guess we’re both sentimental fuckers_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_It’s funny you say that_ _  
_ _Guess what you’re still saved in my phone as?_

 **Fucker** **  
** _Geez Isak you and your potty mouth_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _:P_

 **Fucker** **  
** _I deserve better than this_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Nah_ _  
_ _Some things never change remember?_

 **Fucker** ****  
_Damn_ _  
_ _Can’t argue against your own words can you_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _You definitely can’t_

-

Isak wakes up the morning with heavy eyelids and a heavier weight in his head. Which is just unfair, considering he doesn’t even have a hangover to blame the shittiness on this time.

Then again, it’s not like he made decisions that helped, either. He’d texted Even for a long time last night because he told himself he’d stop answering when Even did, forgetting that Even’s relationship with sleep is somehow even worse than his. That, too, seems to have stayed constant over the years.

He glances down at his phone, still resting on his pillow. He must have fallen asleep at some point in the middle of their conversation. He hopes Even doesn’t think he abandoned him. He checks his notifications.

 **Fucker** ****  
_So i’m guessing you probably fell asleep on me_  
_I remain the reigning champion of staying up until unholy hours of the morning! Yus_ _  
Also - agreed. We should hang out again :)_

Isak smiles. He can’t help it.

(He really can’t.)

It’s at that point he becomes aware of some sort of commotion happening somewhere else in the flat. Voices. Banging. An assortment of other strange noises? Not that any of it is stuff he hasn’t heard before, considering one of his flatmates happens to be Eskild “physically incapable of walking into a room without causing a commotion” Tryggvason. Still, he feels obligated to figure out what the hell is going on. He pulls on a shirt and trudges out into the hallway. Seems to be coming from the direction of the kitchen. He walks a few more steps and pauses in the doorway.

Both Eskild and Linn are there, a little unprecedented considering this is at least two hours before Linn usually gets up, and even more so because they’re both fully dressed. Eskild is on the phone and is currently rummaging around the room for something. Though “rummaging” isn’t so much an accurate description as “attempting to singlehandedly destroy the room” might be.

“ - And Isak, well, he’s a good kid, but he’s so _lazy_ ,” Eskild is saying.

Clearly, Isak walked in on the wrong part of the conversation.

“Excuse me?” he says, honor-bound to get defensive.

“Hold on, love, I have to go but I’ll see you soon.” Eskild hangs up and turns around. He raises an eyebrow. “Well, you’re up early.”

Isak frowns at him. “What’s going on?”

“Noora’s back from London,” Linn pipes up from the table, where she’s calmly spreading some type of questionable substance onto a piece of toast. This, for some reason, makes the most sense out of everything else that is currently happening. “Like, _back_ back.”

“And I’m picking her up like the amazing friend that I am,” Eskild adds. “But I can’t find my damn keys - “

“Why is she back from London?” Isak asks, still confused.

“Because William’s an asshole? Because she decided she wants to finish high school in her home country like a normal person? Because London weather is bad for her skin?” Eskild shrugs. “Who can say, really? But it looks like she has nowhere else to go.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Isak says, sluggish morning brain struggling to put together the pieces, “is she going to be moving back here?”

“Well, yeah,” Eskild says, as if stating the obvious. Which fuck you, Eskild, it definitely isn’t. But Linn’s staring at him like that, now, too. Ugh.

“And you guys didn’t think to tell me before now?”

“Well, sorry, Mr. Valtersen, didn’t realize you were the bossman of the house,” Eskild snorts. “Anyway, it’s an emergency, apparently. She didn’t give us much warning either. Can you believe it? She didn’t even tell me, and I’m the most trustworthy person in the world!”

Isak doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes at that. He suddenly has much more important things to worry about.

“Okay, so let me do the math,” Isak says. He’s aware that between the sarcastic nature of his words and the irritation in his voice that’s there from being so tired, he probably sounds like an asshole. He’s not trying to, though, he swears. He just doesn’t have the presence of mind to attempt to sound nice right now. “We’ve got three rooms. Three rooms does not equal four people.”

“Isak,” Eskild says, patiently, “we don’t have to - “

“Are you kicking me out?” Isak blurts out.

Now, both Eskild and Linn are staring at him.

“You know,” Eskild says, “there’s no rule saying only one person can live in a room.”

Well. When he says like that, it almost sounds obvious.

“Oh,” Isak says.

“And if it bothers you that much, the couch is perfectly comfortable,” Eskild continues with a shrug. “Linn would know.”

“Hey,” Linn intones, though she doesn’t actually seem that bothered.

Isak feels his frown grow deeper. “What the fuck, Eskild,” he says, and he’d like to think he’s capable of remaining calm in stressful situations but honestly even he can’t ignore the way his words are starting to tumble out of his mouth faster and faster like a damn trainwreck, “I’m not going to move to the couch, that’s such - that’s such _bullshit_ \- “

“Hey, Isak, relax,” Eskild says. He walks over and puts his hands on Isak’s shoulders like he’s trying to calm him down. Which, yeah, okay. “Noora can stay in my room, okay? It’s no big deal.”

(Though after the events of the last few days, Isak is really starting to lose all concept of what that phrase means.)

Isak closes his eyes for a moment and forces himself to take in a deep breath.

“Yeah, sure,” Isak mumbles. “No big deal.”

Eskild sighs. “Look, I know you’re not a big fan of change, but it’ll be okay. I promise.”

It’s been a long time since Isak actually took words like those at face value, but the way Eskild says it, all level-headed and no-nonsense, almost makes it easy this time.

He can’t, though, not entirely. He wishes he could, but the truth is, he’s just not much of a believer in promises.

(Not anymore.)

“Is Noora going to be okay with staying in your room when you bring guys over almost every night?” Isak says, because apparently even after he has a minor crisis it doesn’t take him long to revert back to being an asshole.

Eskild rolls his eyes and takes his hands off his shoulders. “I’d just stick her in your room, but we all know the smell would probably make her pass out.”

Isak gives him the middle finger. This, at last, feels like familiar ground.

-

Between school and the fiasco of Noora moving back in - there are shitty romance movies, and a lot of tears, and a lot of sad break up stories Isak doesn’t really have the patience for, but Eskild makes him stay anyway because “we’re a _family_ , Isak, we deal with heartbreak together” - Isak forgets that he hasn’t answered Even’s message until the next day. He meant to. But he has a lot else going on right now, too.

(Old habits really do die hard, apparently.)

Twenty-four hours is already enough time for Isak to feel awkward about sending another text, like it’s already too late. Theoretically he knows that’s ridiculous. Even probably wouldn’t even care that much as long as he explained himself. But that’s the thing. He can’t explain himself.

(He doesn’t know how.)

Five minutes before biology starts, he finds himself staring at his phone. Even’s messages, specifically, because honestly at this point what else would he be staring at? There’s a hundred things he could say, and a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t say any of them. If he suggests they hang out again, he has to figure out an excuse for why it took him a whole day to come up with a response so stupid. If he makes up an excuse, it’ll sound like he’s trying too hard. If he says something entirely unrelated, he’ll probably just sound insensitive.

Four years ago, this wouldn’t matter. Four years ago, he wouldn’t have let time slip by him that easily.

(Four years ago. He really needs to stop thinking about things that way. It’ll never be the way it was four years ago again.)

“Hey,” Sana says, sliding into the seat next to him and abruptly derailing all of his thoughts.

In a panic, he switches his phone off and flings it away from him, face down on the table. “Hi,” he says back.

She frowns at him like he’s a weirdo. He can’t exactly blame her.

Luckily, she’s not the kind of person that would ask why he’s being weird. She just says, “So I assume you did the reading for today.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Jesus, what do you take me for, an idiot?”

“I mean, do you really want me to answer that question?” she says with a smirk.

“Ugh. Yes, I did the reading. Why, do you doubt me or something?”

“No,” she says. “I was just wondering if you could explain it to me.”

He blinks at her. “What?”

“You’re supposed to be good at biology, aren’t you?” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m a fucking master at biology,” Isak says automatically.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit,” Sana snorts. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page before class starts.”

No-nonsense Sana, as per usual. Any half-decent partner would have stopped giving her shit by now, though, so Isak doesn’t answer, just reaches into his bag and pulls out his textbook. As he hoists it onto the table, his phone vibrates. His heart jumps in his chest, unbidden. He checks the notification.

 **Dad** **  
** _I can’t make excuses to your mother for you forever, you know._

Isak stares at the words. They’re not the words he’d been expecting.

(Not the ones he’d been wanting to see.)

Sharp pain pierces the skin of his palm. He looks down at his hand. At some point when he hadn’t been paying attention, it’d curled itself into a shaking fist.

It takes him a second to remember what he was actually doing. He glances over at Sana. She stares back at him.

“Is everything okay?” she asks.

He looks back at the textbook in front of him. Unclenches his fist. Forces his fingers to relax. Takes in a breath. Another.

“Yeah,” he says. “Everything’s fine.”

(He always figured the more he says those words, the easier it’ll be to believe it. These days, though, even he’s getting tired of his own lies.)

He opens the book and flips to the right page. He turns back to Sana.

“So,” he says. “Properties of water. Exciting shit.”

She doesn’t answer. She just looks at him appraisingly, like, _Go on, I’m listening._ He launches into the explanation and pretends he’s not grateful for it.

In the end, He only gets through about a minute of his explanation before the teacher starts the class, which is just as well because the longer he goes, the higher the chances of Sana disputing him, and he’s not sure he has the strength right now to defend his honor. Still, when he closes his book, he catches Sana shooting him a brief smile out of the corner of his eye. It’s one of those blink-and-you’ll miss moments.

He doesn’t blink, and he doesn’t miss it.

He just smiles back.

-

At lunch time, he pulls his phone out to delete the text from his father. Doing so reminds him that the last person who texted him before that was Even, which reminds him he still hasn’t responded.

Fuck, is it even worth it at this point?

Five minutes later, he’s still staring at his phone, and he’s still not sure he knows the answer to that question.

Isak feels a light nudge on his shoulder. He looks up, and Jonas raises his eyebrows at him.

“Are you going to eat your food?” He says. “Because if you’re not, I mean, I can’t let a perfectly good slightly-bitten sandwich go to waste.”

Isak snorts and sets his phone down on the table. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, picking up his sandwich.

Jonas glances down at his phone. “Everything chill? Is it your parents?”

Isak briefly contemplates agreeing. It would be the easiest explanation. Easier than “Yeah, that and I’m freaking out about sending a text to my ex-best friend who crashed back into my life two days ago with no warning because why would he give one when we haven’t properly talked in years, why do I keep on expecting the most unreasonable shit of people and then failing miserably in return, god I’m such a fucking idiot”, anyway.

“Not this time,” he says. Apparently, his brain loves not taking the easiest way out. Fantastic.

“Is it important?”

“Nah, it’s just - “ Isak sighs. “You remember Even?”

“Even…” Jonas’ eyes light up in recognition. “Oh, yeah! He was in his tenth year when we were in eighth, right? Yeah, I remember the guy. You guys used to be really tight, didn’t you?”

( _Used to be_. Right.)

Isak nods. “He actually goes to Nissen now.”

Jonas frowns. “But isn’t he - “

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Isak shakes his head. “We started talking again, but - I don’t know. I guess it’s just weird because he’s been away for so long.”

“Yeah.” The expression on Jonas’ face softens. “I remember how rough it was on you when he left.”

That almost makes Isak want to laugh in some masochistic kind of way. Not that he ever told Jonas how much it sucked, not in so many words. But if Isak remembers all the afternoons spent sulking at the skate park or in the living room of Jonas’ house, well, he’s probably not the only one.

Rough is a bit of an understatement, when it comes to the days after Even left. There were holes he left behind in Isak’s life that some days felt too deep to fill. The bike next to Isak’s when he rode home from school. The doodles he used to sneak into the margins of Isak’s notes. The familiarity of Even’s room and his myriad of hipster movie posters, almost more comforting to Isak than his own. Their lives had been intertwined for so long, dealing with the sudden absence of Even was like having to learn how to breathe again.

(And the days went by, and he did.

And now it feels like someone changed the rules yet again, and he didn’t notice. He just didn’t notice.)

“I don’t know, it’s stupid,” Isak says. “He’s just a guy.”

“He was important to you, though,” Jonas says, shrugging. “Sounds like he still is.”

Jonas has this strange way of making things sound way easier than they actually are. Even after years of knowing him, it still catches Isak off guard.

“Listen, it’s cool he’s back,” Jonas says. “And it’s cool you’re trying to be his friend again. Really. I’m sure he appreciates it.”

“You really think so?” Isak says doubtfully.

Jonas claps a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, bro. Just be yourself, you know?”

Isak can’t help but laugh at that.

“Okay, yeah,” Jonas concedes with a laugh of his own. “But it’ll be good. I know it will.”

(Everyone else in Isak’s life seems to have a lot of confidence that things will just work out for the best. Must be nice to have that much faith in the universe.)

“Anyway,” Jonas says. “We’re chilling at my place tonight. You’re bringing the beer, right?”

“Wait,” Isak says, “why am _I_ bringing the beer?”

-

The texting thing turns out to be a moot point.

After Isak’s last class for the day lets out, he walks out of the room and finds Even outside of it.

He’s leaning against the wall opposite the door, looking impossibly relaxed with his thumbs tucked loosely in his pockets. Like he was always meant to stand there. As soon as he catches sight of Isak, he lifts his eyebrows and smiles.

(As if Isak didn’t already know why he’d be standing there.)

Isak walks over, equal parts pleased and confused.

“You know,” he says, “if you’re trying to convince me you’re not a creep, memorizing my class schedule is not the way to go.”

“Who says I know your class schedule?” Even says. “Maybe I just happened to be standing here, very conveniently, being the cool badass I always am.”

“Uh huh,” Isak says, trying to fight back a smile. He cannot be showing signs of weakness this early in the conversation, damn it. “Seriously, how’d you know?”

“I have my ways.” Even picks up his bag and slings it on his shoulder. “Murder. Sabotage. Also, one of the girls in your year told me. Vilde?”

“Ugh, _Vilde_ ,” Isak groans. “Betraying all my secrets.”

Even smiles. “You know, she was really pushing me to join her thing for the revue. The kose group or something?”

“Oh, god, don’t let her get her claws into you,” Isak says, feigning horror. “Once she does that, it’s the beginning of the end.”

“I’d only be interested if you were,” Even says with an easy shrug.

God. But how can he just say things like that? Isak always envied him for that way he had of just saying whatever was on his mind. He guesses he still does.

“And clearly I’m not,” Isak says, pretending his pulse didn’t just spike in his veins for some inexplicable reason. “So what are you doing here, then?”

Even’s eyes gleam. “I never got to properly walk you all the way home the last time,” he says. “And I am, as they say, a man of my word.”

Isak snorts. “Do they really say that?”

“Obviously,” Even says with a grin.

(Whatever Isak thinks when they’re apart, when they’re together, it’s easy. It is so goddamn easy.)

“So we’re going, then?” Isak says, quirking an eyebrow.

“After you, good sir,” Even says with a jaunty bow.

Isak snorts out a laugh. What an idiot.

-

“So how are you finding Oslo again?” Isak says. “Or is Stavanger just better in every way?”

They’re back on the tram, and this time there’s only standing room. Even has to shift toward Isak when more passengers get on at the next stop.

“I wouldn’t say every way,” Even says. He leans in closer, presumably so he doesn’t have to shout over the noise in the car. “I mean, does it have better weather? A cozier atmosphere? Infinitely superior scenery? Well, sure.”

“Look at you. Four years is all it takes for you to turn on your own people.  And what do you mean, better weather? What about all the rain and wind?”

Even shrugs. “What if I like rain?”

(Of course Even would be the kind of person who likes rain.)

“So you hate being back in Oslo, then,” Isak says.

Isak wouldn’t be surprised if he did. He can’t imagine Even would have much to miss about Oslo after he’s spent four years of his life moving on from it.

“I don’t, actually,” Even says. He shifts his grip on the pole. “There are some nice things about it.”

“Like what?”

Even looks down at Isak. He raises his eyebrows, and the corner of his mouth twitches upward. It’s a soft smile, Isak thinks. The kind of smile that’s trying to tell you something.

(But why couldn’t he just say it out loud?)

“The people here are hot as hell,” Even says. “I mean, folks in Stavanger are nothing to sneeze at, but, like, holy _fuck_.”

Isak bursts out laughing. He really has no idea what he expected. “Wow, okay.”

Even holds up a hand. “Just being honest.” His smile grows a fraction. “And our new place is pretty cool. We’ve got a flat now, and I’ve got a loft in my room. Makes me feel on top of the world every time I go to bed.”

“Fancy.”

“Actually, you should come check it out,” Even says. “It’ll be a trip. Way different from where we used to live in Oslo.”

For a moment, Isak thinks about saying no. He’s got plans tonight. The boys are counting on him.

Even’s still looking at him, clearly expecting an answer. And when Isak lets himself look back, he kind of has to wonder why he thought he could ever say no in the first place

“Okay,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Just hold on a second.”

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Hey bro don’t think I can make it tonight_

 **Jonas Vasquez** **  
** _Seriously?? Why???_

He looks up at Even, who smiles back down at him. There’s really not much point in making up a lie, is there?

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Want to catch up with Even for a bit_ _  
_ _It’s important_

 **Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_Oh okay gotcha_  
_Just don’t forget the beer next time bro i’m holding you to it_  
_Can’t believe you’re ditching us for Even but also I guess I can’t blame you_ _  
Dude’s cool as fuck_

“So are we good?” Even says.

Isak slips his phone back into his pocket, and grins. “We are good.”

-

Even’s room really is a trip, compared to what it used to be.

Well, okay, it’s a completely different room, so that seems pretty obvious. But there’s so much more there Isak isn’t used to seeing. There are new drawings scattered around the walls, and he recognizes the style, vaguely, but in four years Even has clearly stepped up his game. There’s a guitar hanging on his wall Isak knows for a fact he didn’t own when he was fifteen. And there’s a strange blue, purple, and pink striped flag draped over a corner of his closet door.

“What’s this?” Isak says.

Even pops his head into the room.

“Oh, it’s a bi pride flag,” he says. “Still haven’t figured out a good place to put it yet.”

Isak stares at him, waiting for him to explain further. He doesn’t.

Instead, he holds something up in the air. “You interested?” he says.

It’s a joint. Why Even keeps drugs in his own house when he still lives with his parents, Isak really can’t say, but he’s not about to start complaining, either.

He lets himself smile as his answer, instead.

-

They’ve cracked the window open so the smoke won’t set off the detectors. The breeze coming in feels soothing against Isak’s face. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he’s in a different place. A different world.

“Are you always this spacey when you’re high?” Even says.

Isak opens his eyes. Even’s staring at him because of course he is. He doesn’t look spacey at all. He looks like he’s never going to look away.

(Maybe Isak wouldn’t mind if he didn’t.)

“Wait, this is the first time we’re smoking together, isn’t it?” Isak laughs. “Wow, what were we doing when we were kids?”

“I mean, I, for one, am glad I didn’t get you hooked on drugs when we were kids,” Even says. “Getting a thirteen year old high would make me a bad influence.”

Isak snorts out another laugh. “Like you were doing drugs yourself, anyway. Must have started in Stavanger.”

“Yeah.” Even cracks a smile. “I’ve had a lot of firsts in Stavanger.”

(Isak doesn’t doubt it.)

He passes the joint over to Even. Their fingers brush.

“More than I know about, anyway,” Isak says.

“Yeah.” Even huffs out a laugh. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on, don’t we?”

He keeps on doing this. He keeps on pushing up against the space and the time between them, keeps on reminding Isak that things can’t just go back to the way they were before, not that easily, anyway, not if they don’t talk about it. And then he doesn’t actually talk about it.

(Though to be fair, Isak doesn’t know where to start, either.)

“Like what?” Isak says.

“Four years,” Even says.

His eyes are gentle when he says it. Gentle and forgiving. Isak feels the sting of blame in the intensity of his gaze, anyway.

He swallows hard. “Your parents got transferred back here, I’m guessing.”

Even leans his head back against the wall, leaving the long line of his pale throat exposed. Isak expects him to call him out on the subject change, but he doesn’t. He just nods.

“Among other things,” he says. “But yeah. You know how the economy is.”

 _Among other things_.

(There’s a lot of things about Even Isak isn’t used to anymore. As far as he knows, though, he’s never had to know what it’s like to think of Even as a mystery he can’t quite solve before now.)

“The economy,” Isak repeats. “Yeah, I know. Jonas goes on these dumb anti-capitalist rants about it all the time.”

“Jonas.” Even’s face lights up. “So you’re still friends, then?”

“Something like that,” Isak says.

“Good,” Even says as he brings the joint up to his lips again. He hasn’t offered it back yet to Isak, but honestly Isak feels like he’s had enough for the evening. “It’s good to have friends like that in your life.”

Isak doesn’t know if Even meant that as a jab. He doesn’t seem upset or anything. He’s not smiling, but his eyes are still warm, as if he could smile at any time. He seems -

If not happy, then content. Content with the world and the universe. Content with this, whatever this means.

(It’s a good look on him. Isak hopes he gets to see it more often.)

“I guess,” Isak says. “Though it seems I only make friends with assholes.”

Even raises an eyebrow. “Nice thing to call Jonas.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Isak says, reaching over with his foot to nudge Even’s shin. “I was talking about you, too.”

“Wow, what?” Even laughs. “What did I do to deserve this?”

Isak shrugs. “Just by being yourself, probably. Baby, you were born this way.”

“Fuck. Isak quoting Lady Gaga at me, now I’ve heard everything.”

“Take note,” Isak says. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.” He can’t stop himself from grinning. Somehow, he doesn’t think Even would mind.

Even grins back. “I bet it is.”

They settle into a comfortable sort of silence, after that. Even takes in another long drag and exhales out the window, but some of the smoke still clings around his head. The late afternoon light is gentle against the sharp lines of Even’s face, burning dimly in his pale eyes. He looks almost peaceful like this, body all stretched out and head tilted toward the veiled sun. But tinged with sadness, somehow, in the curve of his lips, the lines of his eyes. Wistful. Like he’s missing something or someone. It’s like looking at a picture from a magazine, blonde sun-kissed model with smoke-blurred edges, or a painting hanging in a museum, or a movie star behind a cracked screen.

Except Even is real. So real Isak could reach out and actually touch this moment if he wanted to. It’s hard to find the words to describe it, but Isak tries to look for them anyway. It comes to him after a few moments, like a long-forgotten memory brought to the surface.

(Beautiful. Even looks beautiful.)

It feels like it should surprise him, that word. But it doesn’t. Isak feels peaceful inside himself, too. His heart beats on.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says.

Even’s eyes slide over to him, unhurried.

“Why are you really back in Oslo?” Isak says. “Why are you at Nissen?”

Even looks at him for a long moment. Under his gaze, Isak feels like glass, fragile and see-through. But strong enough to look back. Strong enough to meet Even’s stare, and not crack.

(Even is not glass. Even is a mirror.)

“Can I ask you a question?” Even says.

Isak swallows. “What’s that?”

Even blinks once, languidly. Isak watches the flutter of his long lashes against his cheekbones.

“Why did you stop answering my emails?” Even says.

For some reason, it’s this that makes things come abruptly to a halt. That makes Isak’s breath feel frozen in his lungs. That makes his heart feel stuck, too.

Why did Isak stop answering his emails?

He had no time.

He had a lot of shit to deal with.

One time, he brought his computer to school to draft an answer to Even’s last message because it’s hard to concentrate in a home that’s slowly but surely falling apart, and Even’s emails those days always seemed to require the highest levels of concentration. And Even had just shared the amazing, incredible news that he’d started dating a girl named Sonja, and Isak’s response had to be just right.

He doesn’t remember how, but at some point he’d accidentally let Jonas and Elias see his screen, and Elias had taken one look at Even’s email - long and replete with emoticons and hearts that it was - and laughed.

“I don’t know who your pen pal is,” Elias said, “but that’s pretty gay.”

He’s not gay, Isak said immediately, he has a girlfriend.

And Elias raised his eyebrows and said, “have you ever heard of beards?”

In a huff, Isak closed his laptop. He’d answer later, when he had more time, fewer stupid friends saying stupid things.

That night, his parents got into another fight. Isak could hardly write an email with all the shouting. He could hardly think at all.

(And the thing is, that feeling didn’t go away.

Isak has felt it for a long, long time.)

“I don’t know,” Isak says.

(But none of his reasons feel like reasons anymore.)

Slowly, Even nods. He looks down at the joint he’s still holding, twisting it in his fingers.

“Yeah,” Even says, quietly.

Someone’s phone starts ringing.

Isak’s hand automatically flies to his pocket. It’s not his.

Even takes his own phone out of his pocket and grimaces. “Fuck,” he says.

Isak licks his lips. They feel dry, all of a sudden. “Who is it?”

“It’s Sonja,” Even says heavily. “My girlfriend, you remember her?”

Isak takes in a breath.

“Yeah,” he says.

“I need to take this,” Even says.

Shouldn’t he look happier to talk to his girlfriend?

Isak doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore.

Isak nods. He leaves the room, because there’s nothing else for him to do. And he closes the door behind him. And he breathes.

(The only thing left in the world for him to do.)

-

A few minutes later, Even comes over to where Isak is.

“So apparently I told Sonja I’d Skype her tonight,” Even says. He sounds apologetic. Why does he sound apologetic? It’s his girlfriend. Of course Sonja has to take priority over a guy Even hasn’t talked to in four years.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Isak says. “I’ll just - head home.”

“This was good, though.” Even sticks his thumbs in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his heels. “Next time, yeah?”

(Isak has never said no to Even before. He’s not about to start now.)

“Yeah.” Isak smiles. “Next time.”

(He means it.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes that happens, Isak figures, sometimes you meet someone who’s so right for you that you can’t wait, you just have to be with them. He doesn’t think that kind of thing would ever happen to him. For him, people are hard to like and harder to love. Even, though, is absolutely the kind of person who that would happen to. Even is the kind of person who would see someone and know they were meant to be together, just like that. And then he’d never let them go.

_iii._

**Fucker** **  
** _Hey did you get home okay?_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Yeah_ _  
_ _Thanks mom_

**Fucker**   
_It’s a dangerous world out there Isak_   
_What if you got mugged?_   
_What if aliens kidnapped you??_   
_WHAT IF YOU DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH CHANGE FOR THE TRAM???_ _  
And what if aliens kidnapped you because you didn’t have enough change for the tram???????_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _I’m sure you’d live_

**Fucker** ****  
_Don’t make fun_ _  
_ _Intergalactic crime is serious business_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_I don’t see the problem here_ _  
_ _Many people on earth would be happy to have me out of their hair I’m sure_

**Fucker** **  
** _I wouldn’t_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _No?_

**Fucker** ****  
_I’d stage a rescue immediately_   
_Call up NASA, be like ‘put me in your fastest shuttle STAT’_   
_(Of course they’d do exactly as I say because I’m young and irresistible)_   
_(And also I’d bribe them with the billion dollars I definitely have)_   
_Then I’d fly through the cosmos searching for you tirelessly_   
_And when I found whatever spaceship they had you cooped up in I wouldn’t even pause to admire it wonderingly I promise_ _  
I’d just fight off the aliens like a badass_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _You? Fighting anything?_

**Fucker** **  
** _You’re right I’d just take your hand and run away screaming_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_That sounds more like it_   
_Probably should head to bed now_ _  
Need to be well-rested for the impending Martian invasion_

**Fucker** ****  
_Okay. Good night :)_ _  
_ _(Watch out for green men in sketchy white vans)_

-

Isak can't sleep.

There’s no point in wondering why. There’s only living with it.

He turns on the lamp beside his bed and rolls over onto his back. Staring at the ceiling on unforgiving nights has become a favorite activity of his, it seems. He contemplates getting out his computer. He could watch a film. He could let the internet take him down increasingly incoherent trains of thought. He’s no stranger to those, either, those late night google search fever dreams.

Or he could do nothing. God knows he’s wasted enough time of his life. What difference does another few hours make?

His phone buzzes. It’s a string of Nas lyrics from Even followed by three increasingly obscure gifs. Isak’s not sure what the connection is between any of these items. Even used to do that a lot, though, used to send a long string of near-incomprehensible messages throughout the night after Isak had purportedly gone to sleep so that he’d wake up to a ridiculous number of notifications in the morning. He’d never say, but Isak always figured he did it to make him smile.

(It worked. Back when they were kids, it always worked.)

Looking down at his phone now makes something tighten in his chest. He nudges it away so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

But with only the ceiling to keep him company, he can’t stop his mind from wandering down paths he’s been trying to avoid for hours. He’d be a lot happier if he didn’t think about these things, probably, but his brain has never been that good at listening to him.

( _My girlfriend_ . _You remember her?_ )

Sonja. Yeah, Isak remembers her. He remembers her very well. Remembers how when he got the first email about her from Even, he sat there and thought, _of course he’d find love this quickly, of course all it’d take is for him to move across the whole damn country, of course it’d be that fucking easy_. Remembers how he tried to feel some sense of pride or happiness for Even, but all he felt in his gut was inexplicable discomfort, unsettling and vaguely nauseating. His heart strangely out of place in his chest.

(He remembers that most of all.)

Though what does he know about Sonja? Not much, all things considered. Most of his knowledge of their relationship comes from Even’s first few emails about her. They’d met in class. Knew each other for less than a month before they had their first kiss. Even said they’d fallen hard and fast.

Sometimes that happens, Isak figures, sometimes you meet someone who’s so right for you that you can’t wait, you just have to be with them. He doesn’t think that kind of thing would ever happen to him. For him, people are hard to like and harder to love. Even, though, is absolutely the kind of person who that would happen to. Even is the kind of person who would see someone and know they were meant to be together, just like that. And then he’d never let them go.

(There is no arguing, after all, against a relationship that’s lasted for four years.)

Isak has never met Sonja. Doesn’t know what kind of person she is, barely even remembers what she looks like from the pictures on Even’s now-nonexistent Facebook profile. But if they’re still dating, they must be good for each other. Even knows how to recognize the good things in his life, and he knows how to hold onto them.

(As far as Isak knows, he isn’t good for anyone.)

Lying here, sleepless, it’s easy to feel bitter about that. He knows he shouldn’t. If Even is happy, that’s all that matters. And if he’s still with her now, there’s no reason to think he isn’t happy.

Yet the feelings are there anyway; hard to explain, harder to make go away. He should feel guilty about feeling these things. Usually, he would. Just for tonight, though, he lets himself indulge in it, lets it curl in his gut and fill him up with a prickling heat that has no right to feel so justified.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think it felt like disappointment.

-

**Magnus Fossbakken** ****  
_Isak Valtersen!! Where the fuck were you yesterday!!!!_ _  
_ _Jonas said you were on beer duty!!!!!_

**Mahdi Disi** **  
** _Seriously bro we were counting on you_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Jonas always says I’m on beer duty_ _  
_ _What did he tell you guys_

**Magnus Fossbakken** ****  
_Was he supposed to tell us something????_ _  
_ _We were all just wondering why the fuck you didn’t show up_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Personal business_

**Mahdi Disi** **  
** _Smells like bullshit_

**Magnus Fossbakken** **  
** _I bet you were with a giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirl_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Jesus fucking christ assholes I’m not honor-bound to tell you every detail of my life_

**Mahdi Disi** ****  
_Whoa, sorry_ _  
_ _Chill bro_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Ugh fuck_   
_Sorry_   
_I’ve just_ _  
Got a lot on my mind_

**Mahdi Disi** **  
** _Okay bro if you say so_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Fuck you, I do say so_

**Mahdi Disi** ****  
_Uh yeah man?_ _  
_ _I believe you_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Oh_ ****  
_Right so_ _  
_ _We’re chill?_

**Mahdi Disi** ****  
_Yeah man we’re chill :)_ _  
_ _Just bring double the beer next time_

**Magnus Fossbakken** **  
** _SECONDED_

-

Sunday afternoon, Isak meets Jonas for kebabs. It’s not exactly a weekly tradition, but they do it as often as they can. They sit at a table in the corner of the restaurant and talk about nothing for a while. Eventually they settle into a comfortable silence. Jonas is quietly eating his food, but he’s also casting glances at Isak out of the corner of his eye, which means he wants to talk to him about something. Jonas is the kind of guy who’d rather let Isak talk first, though. Let him set the pace. Isak sighs inwardly.

“What’s up?” Isak says. Better get it over sooner rather than later, he figures.

“So, the group chat a few days ago,” Jonas says, nonchalant as ever.

Jonas is also the kind of guy who does not beat around the bush. Isak sighs again.

“You think I’m being dumb,” Isak guesses.

Jonas shrugs. “Nah. You do you, man. Even if it means lying to your friends.”

Isak winces. “I wasn’t lying,” he says, a weak protest. “It was personal.”

“Yeah, okay. Maybe I’m not being totally fair.” Jonas shoots him a strange look. “Seriously, though, dude. Is everything okay? It’s not like you to do something like that.”

(Isn’t it? Maybe Isak’s lied so much, it only stands out when he stops pretending he believes it.)

“Yeah,” Isak says, staring at the contents in his locker. “Everything’s fine. Sorry if I’m being weird.”

“Nah, bro,” Jonas says. “It’s chill. It’s just... you said it yourself, right? Even’s just a guy. I don’t really get why you didn’t tell the boys about him, that’s all.”

That makes the two of them.

No, that’s not true, not entirely. The thing is, Isak knows Even is just a guy, just an old friend, just a human being. But he’s spent years chasing after the idea of Even, the memory of him, in the privacy of his own head. He’s spent years failing.

And he doesn’t know how to deal with himself now that Even is more than a shade of his past. More than a remnant of a long-lost dream. He used to wonder if he’d made up what they had together, if he’d built it up in his head with nostalgia and rose-tinted glasses. But he knows, now, that he hasn’t.

(Even is far too real.)

So when it comes to not telling his friends about Even, the simple truth of the matter is this:

The thought of telling people how important this is – how important Even is – is just too damn scary.

“I guess…” Isak swallows. “I guess I’m just trying to figure him out.”

Jonas’ eyebrows shoot up. “But what is there to figure out? Don’t you already know the guy?”

(And the thing about that is, Isak doesn’t know the answer to that question.

He genuinely does not know.)

“It’s complicated,” Isak says.

“Not really,” Jonas returns.

“To me, it is.” Does he have the presence of mind to explain exactly why? No, probably not. He’s not sure even Jonas would understand.

“For real, though,” Jonas says. “I think you’re taking this way too seriously. Just be chill, okay? I’m sure he’d appreciate that. Anyone would.”

Has he ever been chill when it comes to Even?

He used to think he’d do pretty much anything to make Even happy. Now he knows he would, because he knows what it’s like to live without Even’s smile, and honestly, that’s not a life he ever wants to go back to.

“I’ll try,” Isak says, knowing full well he won’t, because he doesn’t know that he can.

“Good boy.” Jonas slaps him on the shoulder. “Tell him hi for me next time you see him, yeah?”

(Next time he sees him. He can’t help but wonder when that will be. Sooner rather than later, he thinks. But one can never be too sure.)

-

Noora is in the kitchen when Isak wakes up a couple mornings after that. Eskild must have headed to class already. Isak wonders when Noora will go back to school herself. Spending all your time in an empty flat can’t be all that fun in practice.

“Good morning,” she says to him brightly when he trudges into the room. She’s scrubbing at the stove top for no apparent reason. To each their own, Isak supposes.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly. After all the heartbreak stories he’s not sure what to say to her. Frankly, the only thing he can think of when they come up is, _That’s rough, buddy._ Probably not the best consolation to hear from your emotionally distant roommate. “Are you, uh… Are you feeling better?”

When she’d first gotten back from London, the first thing he’d thought was that she looked even paler than he remembered. She wasn’t wearing any make-up (at least, as far as he could tell, although admittedly Isak is no expert) and the way she sat, you’d almost think she was actively trying to make herself disappear. She spoke so quietly he had to strain to hear. He didn’t know her all that well before she moved, but even he could tell she was different.

Now, she glances at him over her shoulder and shoots him a brief smile. She’s wearing lipstick. It’s not her signature red shade, but Isak figures it must mean something that she even feels like faking normalcy today.

“I’m glad to be home,” she says. It doesn’t sound like a lie. In fact, Isak thinks the color in her voice might be something like relief.

(Not that her answer really addresses his question, but Isak would like to think he’s not so much an asshole that he’d actually point that out.)

“Yeah?” he says. “That’s… That’s good, right?”

She nods, smiling again. This one is a bit bigger. “Yeah. Kind of feels like I lost my mind, you know? But now it feels like I’ve got it back.”

“From you-know-who, you mean?” Isak says, before he quite realizes what he’s saying.

Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to bother Noora. She just laughs. “William isn’t Voldemort, Isak, it’s okay. I’m not going to keel over if you remind me he exists.” Still, saying that seems to remind her starkly of the circumstances. The spark of humor that had briefly lit up her eyes is gone now. It’s a painful thing to see happen to anyone.

“You know,” Isak says, “it’s okay for you to feel sad about it.”

(God, what is with him today and saying dumb things? He can’t imagine hearing something that useless would actually make someone feel better.)

Noora sighs. She doesn’t seem angry at him for saying something like that, which is a little surprising to him, but he’s not about to complain. “Yeah. I just - I don’t know what I was thinking, really, dropping my whole life for a guy. It was kind of stupid, wasn’t it?”

(Well, fuck. This isn’t exactly the kind of conversation Isak is equipped to have. Like, at all. Agreeing would obviously be a dick move. Disagreeing would invalidate her feelings and thus also be a dick move. It’s a lose-lose situation.)

Isak shrugs. “Feelings make us all do stupid things,” he says. “At least you know you’re, like, a person.”

Her eyes flicker up from the floor at him. She gives him a long, appraising look. The corner of her mouth twitches up.

“Are you speaking from experience?” she asks.

He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Something like that.”

Noora nods. “Well, it’s a good thing to remember. So thank you.”

That catches Isak a bit off guard. He didn’t exactly expect her to thank him for the dumb things that come out of his mouth. He doesn’t know how to react.

He clears his throat. “I should – you know,” he says, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb in what he hopes is a gesture indicating he needs to use the bathroom. Like, desperately.

She nods again. “Oh, I should tell you, by the way, before you go. Vilde wants to have a pre-game here this weekend. For her kose group thing?”

He stares at her. Well, this conversation is just full of surprises, isn’t it? “But she doesn’t even live here.”

“I know.” Noora looks back down at the ground, a little sheepishly. “She’s hard to say no to, though.”

(Well. It would be more than a little hypocritical for Isak to fault her for that.)

“Great,” he says. “Looking forward to it.”

Noora tilts her head, like she’s onto his bluff. To be fair, he thinks, it’s probably not that hard.

“You should bring some friends,” Noora suggests. “Resist the temptation to barricade yourself in your room.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” Isak says, raising his eyebrows.

The comment is enough to surprise a smile out of her. This time, it almost feels real.

-

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Hello boys_

**Jonas Vasquez** **  
** _What do you want_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Why do you always assume I want something_ _  
_ _What if I just want to talk to my friends huh_

**Jonas Vasquez** **  
** _*_ [ _gif_ ](https://decaturish.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/spock-eyebrow-raise-o.gif) _*_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_… Yeah okay_   
_There’s a pre-game at my place this Friday_ _  
Vilde’s hosting (don’t ask me why or how because for the record I did not agree to this I just have to live with it)_

**Magnus Fossbakken** ****  
_Aw what Vilde’s gonna be there?!_ _  
_ _I already told my parents I’d help them out with something_

**Mahdi Disi** **  
** _Yeah can’t make it either, it’s my mom’s birthday_

**Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_Me neither_ _  
_ _Got things to do_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Wow and you guys gave me shit for bailing on you_ _  
_ _Hypocrites_

**Mahdi Disi** ****  
_Hey bro at least we’re giving you a heads up_ _  
_ _Just saying_

**Magnus Fossbakken** **  
** _Oooooooooooh_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _:P :P :P_

**Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_Hey but next week we’re definitely hanging out right?_ _  
_ _I want that beer_

**Magnus Fossbakken** **  
** _THE BEER!!!! THE BEER_

**Mahdi Disi** **  
** _Double the beer, don’t forget_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _You all exhaust me_

-

Even’s waiting for him after his last class lets out. Isak had kind of been hoping he would, even though he didn’t want to hope for it. As a general rule, he tries to be the kind of person who never has their hopes up. He figures best case scenario, he’ll get a pleasant surprise, and worst case scenario, he isn’t disappointed. Ideally, this is what he would like to feel all the time, mostly because he thinks it would just make things a whole lot easier.

But it’s a difficult philosophy to put into practice when your brain is as prone to wishful thinking as his is. What he feels now, as he approaches Even, is the soaring of his heart, exhilarating as it is painful. It’s irritating, honestly, to have so little control over the thoughts in his head and the feelings in his body. He tries forcing his heartbeat to slow down as he approaches Even. Unsurprisingly, this does not work.

“So I guess this is just a thing now,” Isak says.

Even shrugs. “Only if you want it to be.”

(He wants.)

“I don’t know,” Isak says. “Do I want a creepy third year stalking my every move?”

Even laughs. “A stalker? Is that all I am to you?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Isak says.

Even grins. He doesn’t seem all that offended. “How’ve you been these last few days?”

Involuntarily, the memories rise up to the forefront of his mind. Noora in the kitchen, hunched over the stove top, the light in her eyes fading in and out with each passing word. His phone sliding in his sweating palm, each careless word from his friends like a punch to his gut he has no real right to defend against. Jonas and his quiet, piercing concern. Isak feeling utterly useless in the face of it all.

(And, lingering over it all, the fear of disapproval, thick in the back of his throat. The fear that any of them will see that for all his talk, for all that he wants to be, he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. It's such a stupid thing to be scared of. It scares him anyway.)

“Fine,” Isak says.

Even says nothing, for a moment. Sudden trepidation makes Isak glance toward him, and Even’s staring at him, his eyes bright and soft. He’s going to call him on his bullshit, Isak thinks. He’s going to demand the truth, and Isak will have no idea how to answer.

(No idea at all.)

“Do you want some cookies?” Even says.

He’s smiling, not so much in the line of his mouth, but in the light dancing in his eyes. Isak lets himself take it in for just a moment, lets his gaze trace the lines of Even’s face as a rare and selfish indulgence. His mouth feels dry, for some reason, his palms sweating in the oppressive heat of his pockets, and for a dizzying second he thinks his heart should be going a hundred miles a minute, but it’s steady in his chest. Steady like the beat of a slow song.

(The light in Even’s eyes; for a moment, Isak wants nothing more than to know where it comes from, wants to find it and live inside it.

That terrifies him, too, the strength of that desire. He wants so much that it hurts.

It hurts more that he doesn’t even really know what it is he longs for.)

“Thought you’d never ask,” Isak says.

The moment passes. His heart beats on.

-

Even buys Isak’s favorite brand without asking him about it, which is nice of him, but now Isak feels bad about not returning the favor. He knows Even wouldn’t ask him or even expect him to, but it’s still a weird feeling to accept the box from Even without giving him anything in exchange. Makes his cheeks feel warm in an inexplicable way.

They sit on a bench close to the store, not quite ready to make the trek back home. Isak would offer Even some of the cookies, but he doesn’t seem interested. He looks more comfortable just sitting there, his legs all stretched out in front of him and his arm slung nonchalantly across the back of the bench. Isak can feel the warmth of it, light against his shoulder blades. If he leaned back, just slightly, he’d be touching it.

He hunches forward, balancing the box on his knees, and eats his cookies.

“So?” Even says. “Are they good?”

“Tastes like childhood,” Isak says.

Even laughs. “You make it sound like you haven’t had them in years or something.”

“I haven’t,” Isak says.

( _Ever since_ , he almost says, but he doesn’t, not because it’s hard to talk about the past, but because if he lets himself start he won’t ever stop.)

He can feel Even looking at him. He’s felt that a lot, lately, that strange tingling on the back of his neck that he gets when he knows someone’s watching him. He can’t help but wonder why that is. Can’t help but wonder what it is Even sees.

(For him, Even is just about one of the hardest things to look at right now.)

“That’s sad,” Even says.

Isak doesn’t know about that. It’s just life, isn’t it, learning how to deal with the absences, the spaces between one thing and the next?

No, he doesn’t think it’s sad. There are things more worth Even’s pity than inevitabilities.

“If you say so,” Isak says.

“I do say so,” Even says. “It’s sad when you don’t get to enjoy the things you deserve.”

He’s infuriatingly casual about it, like he’s just talking about the weather. Like he didn’t just say something that made Isak’s heart stumble over itself, even if just for a moment. He used to say shit like that all the time, in that way of his that made it seem like it was no big deal. Like he was just stating facts. Isak still isn’t used to it. Still isn’t used to the way it makes him feel.

(He’s not sure he ever was.)

“And you think I deserve shitty cookies?” Isak says.

Even’s eyes light up. “So you do admit that they’re shitty!”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”

Even laughs. They’re close enough that Isak can feel Even’s body shake with the force of it. He’s the kind of boy who uses his whole body to express his emotions. Isak has seen him do it for whole years of his life, and he still doesn’t quite understand how he does it. He just does.

It takes a moment for Even to still. Isak hazards a glance at him when he does, thinking in this brief calm it’s probably safe, Even is probably looking at something else now. But Even’s head is still tilted toward him, and he meets Isak’s gaze steadily. The curve of his mouth is soft, the look in his eyes near inscrutable.

(It’s unfair, utterly unfair, that he could look this quiet when everything inside Isak feels so loud.)

Even does not look away. Something in his gaze intensifies, somehow, as he grows almost uncharacteristically serious. It pulls Isak’s attention closer. Keeps it there. For a second, Isak almost forgets anything exists outside of it.

“Isak,” Even says, quietly, “I think you deserve the whole world.”

Isak’s breath hitches in his throat. It’s a small noise, barely noticeable. But he would bet anything that Even noticed.

(Even is the kind of boy who notices everything.)

A moment, suspended in silence.

Another.

Even grins, almost blinding, and looks away. Isak takes his chance to look away too, down at the unfinished cookies in his lap. His heart is a storm inside his chest, and he doesn’t know how to explain it, and he doesn’t know how to make it turn back into a normal, functioning organ. But it’s not as strange a feeling as he might have thought. It occurs to him this is just another thing Even used to make him feel. It feels so familiar to him, it almost seems normal.

(Like it’s a normal thing for your best friend to make your insides feel like they’re falling apart without even trying.)

“Though don’t let that get to your head too much,” Even says. “Can’t have you thinking about world domination.”

“Earth would be lucky to have me as its leader,” Isak says. The words come out feeling stilted, unsteady.

“Right,” Even says, lifting his eyebrows skeptically.

“It would,” Isak insists, and now it’s easier to speak, easier to breathe again. “I’d be the greatest dictator.”

Even laughs freely. “I’m not sure that’s something you should aspire to,” he says.

“Well,” Isak says, cracking a smile. “Maybe you’re right, at that.”

He reaches into the box in his lap and grabs another cookie. He looks at it, for a long moment.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says.

Even raises his eyebrows.

“There’s a pre-game at my place this Friday,” Isak says. “I was told to bring friends.”

“Yeah?”

“Want to help me keep a promise?” Isak says. He figures if there’s anyone in this world who counts as his friend, it would be Even.

He looks over at Even to see if he’s going to say anything to that. He doesn’t. Instead, he grins.

For the first time in a long while, the silence between them feels easy to fall into.

-

“Okay,” Even says on the way home, “but in return for going to your pre-game, I think you should do me a favor in return.”

“A favor?” Isak frowns. “Going to a pre-game qualifies as a favor?”

“Well, yeah,” Even says shrugging. “Didn’t you say it yourself? I’m just going to make you seem less sad in front of your friends.”

“So it’s not because you can’t get enough of my company?” Isak says, feigning shock that he doesn’t quite feel. He can’t exactly blame Even if he’s feeling less than enthusiastic about going to a pre-game put on by a bunch of second years.

“Well, that too,” Even says unconcernedly, knocking their shoulders together. God, there it is again, the way he makes saying things like that look so _easy_. Does he even know what he’s saying?

(It’s Even. Of course he does.)

“But my point is,” Even says, because that’s right, he’s still talking, because for him nothing is a big enough deal to actually stop to freak out about it, “you asked me to do something for you.”

“Well, yeah,” Isak says. “It’s called an invitation. Would you rather I hadn’t invited you? Because I’d be happy to uninvite you.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Even says with the kind of confidence that comes with absolute certainty in one’s own beliefs. Admittedly, he has a point. “But it’s a favor because, you see, Isak, you can’t even provide me with alcohol. I have to bring it myself.”

Isak snorts. “Wow. Low blow.”

Even raises his eyebrows, spark of amusement in his eyes. Fuck, it’s an unfairly good look on him - that playful confidence, that tantalizing lift of the corner of his mouth. Isak allows himself a brief moment to despair over it.

“Am I wrong?” Even says, voice low.

Isak swallows. “Maybe not,” he admits.

Even’s small smile bursts into a sudden grin. “So it’s settled, then,” he says. “You owe me a favor.”

Isak licks his lips. “Sure, I guess,” he mumbles.

Even laughs. “Geez, Isak, where’s the fight? Are you going to let me win that easily?”

“We both know you would have won it from the beginning,” Isak says. “What’s the point in fighting that?”

Even doesn’t answer. Isak hazards a quick glance at him, just one. His eyes are warm, almost burning. Isak looks back down at the ground.

Isak clears his throat. “So what did you have in mind?”

Again, silence. Isak’s fists tighten around the straps of his backpack.

“You know,” Even says, “I still haven’t gotten you to watch Baz Luhrmann with me.”

Isak blinks up at him. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“Seriously?” Isak says. “You’re seriously still on that?”

“Yes, this is a very serious matter,” Even says. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my entire life.”

“I don’t think that’s a very high bar,” Isak says.

“I’m telling you, Isak,” Even says, and the set of his mouth really is serious now. “Baz Luhrmann makes good movies.”

It amazes Isak, sometimes, the things Even does take seriously. At the same time, it’s not surprising at all. Even is utterly, devotedly passionate about everything he loves. If Isak is honest with himself, he’s always found that a little incredible. It 's awe-inspiring, how much fucking love Even Bech Næsheim has in his heart.

“Okay,” Isak says. “I believe you.”

That seems to catch Even off guard. His eyes widen, ever so slightly. “Really?”

Isak shrugs. “Why do you seem so surprised?”

Even shifts his grip on the pole between them. “You were always so adamant about it, that’s all.”

Isak supposes that’s true enough. He’s been fighting this fight for so long, he doesn’t even remember why it started in the first place. It was a joke, probably. A way to get on Even’s nerves, though Isak doesn’t know why he ever tried when Even’s nerves are practically impossible to get on. As far as he knows, he hasn’t yet found a way.

And maybe it started as a joke, but at some point he’d been joking about it so much that it started to seem important to keep it up. To keep things the same, because there were lots of things about their friendship that were constants and Isak figured his pushback against Baz Luhrmann was just another thing on that list. The longer he kept it up, the more it started feeling like a normal part of their relationship, like the perpetually running challenge clause.

(Or the way Even’s smile made him feel.)

But after so long, it no longer feels necessary to maintain the charade.

(Isak’s not quite sure why it ever did.)

“Things change,” Isak says. “People do, too.”

He can feel Even’s eyes on him. If he tried, he could probably guess what they looked like.

(He doesn’t.)

-

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _So I’m guessing you already have the movie picked out_

**Fucker** ****  
_Isak not only do I have the movie picked out I have an annotated list sorted by priority that I made literally years ago_ _  
_ _I am PREPARED_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _So you’re both a creep and a huge nerd_

**Fucker** **  
** _Technically you already knew this about me_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Well yeah but sometimes I forget like how much of a nerd you are_   
_(Spoiler: it’s a lot. You are a lot of a nerd)_ _  
Also - years ago? Wouldn’t you have made changes to it by now?_

**Fucker** ****  
_Nah_   
_This list withstands the test of time_ _  
Though I attribute that almost entirely to Baz Luhrmann’s sheer genius_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Christ_ _  
_ _Why do you like him anyway? Sounds like he makes oversentimental pretentious as shit garbage if you ask me_

**Fucker** ****  
_I hope you know I feel personally affronted right now_ _  
_ _Baz Luhrmann does not make garbage! Baz Luhrmann makes epic love stories!_

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Why do you want to show me an epic love story_   
_And what the fuck makes a love story epic_ _  
His movies sound depressing as shit not epic_

**Fucker** ****  
_Everyone needs a little more love in their lives <3 _   
_But that’s the point_   
_For a love story to be epic everyone has to die_   
_That’s how you know it actually means something_   
_Why fall in love if you’re not willing to put your life on the line?_   
_All or nothing_ _  
That’s the way it should be_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _You really think so?_

**Fucker** ****  
_Haha_   
_Nah, just kidding_   
_But seriously_ _  
My man Baz gets it_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _I’ll take your word for it_

**Fucker** **  
** _You don’t have to! You will see the evidence right in front of your eyes soon enough!!_

**Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Oh god._

-

For some reason Even insists that the best time to watch whatever movie he’s carefully picked out is before the pre-game, and the best place to watch it in is Isak’s room. Isak doesn’t understand his logic (something about the newness of the experience heightening the ambiance?) but he supposes it’s not the worst thing they could be doing. Vilde’s revue nerds aren’t coming for another few hours, so it’s not like Isak is doing that barricading-himself-in-his-room-during-the-party thing Noora told him not to do. Not really.

Even seems strangely excited about seeing his flat for the first time. He’s practically bouncing up and down on the tram ride to his place.

“What’s with you today?” Isak says.

Even shrugs, loose and casual. “I’m finally fulfilling my promise to walk you home.”

Isak snorts out a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

Even grins, unrestrained. Isak pretends his heart doesn’t knock clumsily against his rib cage at the sight of it.

(Frankly, he doesn’t know when he got so bad at lying to himself.)

“And I finally get to see your new room,” he says. “I wonder if anything’s changed, or if it’s just as boring as it used to be.”

“What?” Isak scoffs. “My room was never boring. My room was the shit. And it’s the shit now.”

“Sure,” Even says, an easy acquiescence. “It’s yours, which makes it interesting just by association.”

Isak doesn’t really know what to say to that, but thankfully he doesn’t have to figure it out. They’ve reached his stop. He steps off the tram, grateful for the new opportunity to stretch out his legs. Even falls into step effortlessly next to him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they’ve been doing this for ages now instead of just a handful of days.

In some sense, though, maybe it’s true they have. And maybe Isak hasn’t forgotten as much of it as he thought he did. Having Even next to him feels as normal as breathing.  As normal as being.

Luckily, no one’s in the common area when they arrive at the flat. The fewer people Isak has to contend with right now, the better.

“Nice place,” Even says appreciatively as they take their shoes off.

Isak shrugs. “Most of the stuff out here isn’t mine.”

“Oh, I figured.” Even flashes him a grin. “Your sense of style was never that sophisticated.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thanks.”

He leads the way to his room and promptly heads for his bed as soon as he enters it. He throws his bag on the ground and throws himself onto the mattress, settling into the softness with a pleased little groan.

It occurs to him after a moment that the room is silent. He turns over onto his back to look at Even, who’s still hovering in the doorway. For some reason, he looks a little uncertain, one thumb tucked into his pocket and his gaze flickering around the room erratically like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Isak has never seen Even look like that.

(Or if he has, Isak doesn’t remember.)

“What’s up?” Isak says. “Are you paralyzed by the coolness of this room?”

That seems to shake Even out of his stupor. He blinks, and smiles down at Isak.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says. “It feels like you.”

Isak blinks up at him. “I don’t know what that means.”

Even laughs. “Of course you don’t.” He walks over to the bed, dropping his bag next to Isak’s, and nudges at Isak’s leg with his foot. “You should move over for me.”

Isak flings out his arms, spread-eagled. “Nah.”

“All right,” Even says. “You asked for it.”

He flings himself onto the bed, full-bodied, no hesitation, right on top of Isak. It knocks the wind out of his gut, this lanky lump of a boy crashing into him, and after Isak recovers from the shock of that he has to deal with the fact that Even is literally on top of him. Heavy, immovable. Warm.

“Jesus christ,” Isak chokes out. “Who - even - _are you_.”

Even laughs again, soft. The feeling of it vibrates against Isak’s body.

“Sorry,” Even says.

He rolls off and reaches for his bag as if nothing happened. Isak wishes he could pretend nothing happened too, but he can’t when he’s still trying to catch his breath. Then he realizes it’s not his breathing that’s the problem, but his heartbeat.

(His goddamned heartbeat. Hasn’t that thing given him enough trouble?)

“Hey,” Even says, “you okay?”

Isak looks over at him. The concern in his eyes is quiet and unassuming. Isak almost feels as though he doesn’t deserve it.

“Yeah,” Isak says. “I’m good.”

(Maybe if he says it out loud enough times, it’ll actually become true.)

“Okay,” Even says. He places his laptop between them. He apparently already has the movie saved on his computer, like the true film nerd he is. “Are you ready?”

Isak shoves himself up into a more comfortable position. He wills his pulse to settle down, but for some reason it seems content to clatter around noisily in his heart.It’s probably a lost cause.

“As I’ll ever be,” he says.

Even reaches over to the lamp and switches it off. It’s still light outside, but the curtains do enough to shut it out that shadows are plenty in the room. Even presses closer to the laptop, his arm brushing against Isak’s lightly, and presses play.

Well, they’re doing this, apparently. He’s watching a purported epic love story with his best friend. In the dark. Alone. That’s certainly a thing that’s happening right now.

Though then again, he’s done stranger things with Even in the past. And if they’re alone, it means no one has to care about what they’re doing.

(No one, including Isak.)

He remembers Even used to talk through movies whenever they watched them together, sometimes making a silly joke, sometimes dropping some nugget of trivia so obscure half the time they didn’t even seem real. Now, though, he’s so quiet Isak can hear the rhythm of his breathing, and nothing else. Even hasn’t bothered to move away. His arm presses warmly against Isak’s own.

Isak remembers that when he was younger, he sometimes went out of his way not to touch Even. Not because he didn’t want to or he thought there was anything wrong with touching your best friend, but because it always felt like a lot. Like too much. If Even’s attention is more manageable for him in smaller doses, that was even more true of his proximity.

(It’s stupid, incredibly fucking stupid, to still be so hung up on something like that. This hardly qualifies as a touch. Even probably isn’t thinking anything of it. Yet Isak can’t seem to do anything but think about it.)

“Claire Danes is pretty hot,” Isak says, not necessarily because that’s what he’s thinking, more because he just feels the need to say _something_.

Even shrugs, the motion rocking gently against Isak. “Sure,” he says. “So’s young Leo.”

“You have a girlfriend,” Isak blurts out, and as soon as he says it he wishes he hadn’t. Christ, why would that even matter?

Even doesn’t point this out. He just quirks an eyebrow, still looking at the screen, and says, “So? I can still appreciate a person aesthetically, can’t I?”

Somewhere in the back of Isak’s mind, he can hear a voice whispering, _You don’t have to be gay to find a guy hot, you know._ It sounds suspiciously like Eskild.

(Though apparently Even isn’t gay. Apparently Even is bi.

This information his brain has suddenly decided to provide him is not helpful in the slightest.)

“What, you don’t think young Leo is hot?” Even says, smiling slightly.

Isak licks his lips. “He’s okay,” he allows.

( _Not my first choice_ , he almost says. Thank god he doesn’t. There’s a damning sentence if ever he’s heard one.)

Even huffs out a quiet laugh, but otherwise doesn’t say anything more. Isak lets out an exhale, hoping it’s not audible over the movie, and forces himself to pay attention.

In the end, that’s not as difficult as he thought it might be. He’s sold by the time Romeo first saunters on screen, the slick music in the background sending chills cascading down his back, and after that he hangs onto every word, drinks in every image. When Romeo and Juliet fall into the pool, he actually stops breathing for half a second. By the time they die on screen, his throat is tight, and heat prickles at the corners of his eyes. He blinks furiously, trying to will them away, but somehow that just makes it worse, and no matter what he does now he can’t stop the tears from coming. They slide stickily down his cheeks, and his breath stutters in his chest. He tries to be quiet, but there’s no way Even would miss it.

(He’s never been good at hiding from him, even at the best of times.)

There’s a clicking sound, like a key being pressed down. Isak’s vision clears enough to see the screen. Even has paused the movie.

Isak turns his head to the side, confused. He’s about to say something, about to ask why they’d paused the movie at such an intense fucking part, but Even is looking at him, staring at him as if he’s been staring at him forever, and whatever half-assed words he could think to say dry up in his lungs.

Slowly, carefully, Even lifts his hand up. His fingers ghost over the stains Isak’s tears left behind on his cheeks, the warmth of them so close his skin tingles.

“You’re crying,” Even whispers. His expression is one of wonder, his eyes wide in the dark, his lips slightly parted. It’s entrancing, a look like that. Isak can’t look away from it.

He is aware, acutely aware, of the inches of space that separate them. There are only a few of them. He can feel Even’s warmth radiating in the gaps, stark against his skin. Has he ever let himself get this close to Even?

(Has he ever let himself get this close to anyone?)

“I cried when I first saw this, too,” Even says. “I cried a lot.”

He’s so unashamed of it, so unafraid to admit something like that. Isak doesn’t know how he does it. There are so many things Isak finds hard, almost impossible, and Even makes all of them look so easy. So fucking easy.

“Yeah,” Isak says. “I bet you did.”

His voice trembles in his throat, and normally he’d hate it, hate the fact that he’s crying and he let someone see. He doesn’t hate it now, because the person who sees him is Even. He could never hate that, not really.

(Not ever.)

“Sonja didn’t cry, when she saw this,” Even says. “It was our first date.”

Isak swallows thickly. “You saw this with your girlfriend.” He has to force the words out past the lump in his throat, and they sound hoarse, all raw and scraped up and bloody. Feels like a war inside his heart right now. Violence thundering in his chest.

“She kissed me, after,” Even says.

The pad of Even’s thumb hovers above Isak’s mouth, millimeters away. If Isak moved, just a little, they would touch.

“Did you want her to?” Isak says.

The question comes out on an exhale, and his breath quivers on the last word. He’s scared to hear the answer, fucking terrified, like he’s about to drop himself off the edge of a cliff, but Even doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at him, and for once Isak can’t stop himself from looking back. Even’s eyes are wide and unblinking, like they won’t ever look away. They’re fire. And Isak could burn just from looking at them.

(He could burn up into the atmosphere.)

A sharp knock raps against the door.

“Hey, Isak,” Eskild calls from the other side, “you can stop being a sad sack in your room now. We have guests!”

Even drops his hand. He’s still staring at him. Waiting.

Isak closes his eyes. Takes in a shuddering breath.

“All right, calm your shit, we’re coming,” he calls back. He’s amazed his voice sounds so steady. He almost feels like he’s hearing someone else say the words.

He opens his eyes, turns his face away and looks down at his hands in his lap. They’re trembling. He doesn’t know why they’re trembling. He hardly knows why anything is happening, anymore.

“We didn’t get to finish the movie,” Even says.

“That’s okay,” Isak says.

(His heart is trembling, too.)

“Are you okay?” Even says. It’s dark, and he’s close, so fucking close Isak can feel the question hanging in the air between them when Even breathes it out, and Isak can’t think, can’t speak, can hardly even remember what words are supposed to be.

“Isak,” Eskild says from the other side of the door, impatiently now.

That, for some reason, galvanizes Isak. He wipes at his eyes, furiously, and he climbs up from the bed.

“I’m fucking coming, jesus,” Isak says to the closed door as he approaches it.

He doesn’t look behind him. For once, let Even be the one who has to follow. And let that be enough.

(God, let it be enough.)

-

The pre-game is pretty much exactly what he expected. Vilde’s the one who organized it, even if it’s officially Noora’s event, so she went all out, with fancy lighting and loud pounding music and as many people crammed in their living room as it can hold. Isak has no idea how he managed to miss any of this being set up, but apparently he did.

For a while, he wanders around the place, trying to gather himself. There are some people he recognizes, but not many. There’s plenty of alcohol, and he pours himself a few drinks to try to loosen himself up. Unfortunately, the beer almost makes it worse, somehow, makes him even more aware of how fucking unsettled he feels in his own skin. It’s the music, maybe. The music is utter shit. And it’s too damn loud. They keep it up for much longer, the neighbors are going to call the cops on them.

Finally, he catches sight of people he actually knows, Vilde and Eva and Noora all sitting in a row on a couch together. They seem wrapped up in some deep conversation – Noora’s got her arm around Vilde’s shoulders, but Eva has her legs in both of their laps, so Isak has no idea what’s going on over there – that he doesn’t feel like interrupting. Sana’s standing by the doorway, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was looking at him with an expression resembling sympathy. But he loses her, too, in the mess of the crowd. A shame. What he wouldn’t give to talk to literally anyone he knows right now, just to get out of his own head for a bit.

Something nudges his elbow. He spins around, and it’s Even, face close enough for his grin to fill up Isak’s whole vision.

Even leans in, close enough to whisper, “You okay?”

Isak swallows. “A little overwhelmed, that’s all,” Isak says. “I’m fine.”

Even tilts his head and gives him a long look. “Do you want to step out for a bit?”

Isak lets his eyes flicker down to Even’s hand. He’s holding a joint. How he always seems to have drugs on him, Isak will never know.

Isak nods, ignoring the sudden tightness in his throat. “Yeah, okay,” he says, trying to be nonchalant about it, though even he knows how badly he’s failing at that.

They move out to the back step. Isak hunches over his knees, taking in a long inhale of the sharp night air, letting it rush out of his lungs. It helps calm him down, marginally.

Even takes his seat next to him and knocks their knees together. “Here,” he says, holding out the joint, now lit. Isak accepts it gratefully.

They smoke in silence for a short while. Isak should say something, probably. He wants to say something. But the silence isn’t because there’s nothing to say.

The silence is because there’s too much.

“Your other friends aren’t here,” Even says. It’s not a question.

Isak nods anyway. “They were all busy, I guess. Or punishing me for ditching them the last time. Same difference.”

Even takes in a long drag from the joint. “So are you ever going to introduce me to them?”

Isak does not have the emotional capacity right now to even attempt to imagine how that would go. “No.”

Even laughs. “What, I’m not good enough for them?”

“More like the opposite,” he says without really thinking about it, but why should he? It’s the truth. He can’t even bring himself to feel bad about it.

He half-expects Even to laugh again, but he doesn’t. In fact, he looks almost startled, eyes wide and lips parted, as if the statement surprised him, as if it’s somehow a revelation that Even is the best person Isak has ever known.

(It’s not, not to Isak. He’s known that for a very long time.)

It doesn’t take long for Even’s expression to melt into a smile, though. He looks down at the joint in his fingers, gives it a long and contemplative look. He brings it to his mouth and inhales.

“You want to know something?” he says.

“Hm?” Isak says.

Even doesn’t answer, for a moment. He’s still smiling, but it’s a small one, as if to himself. Isak has no idea what Even is about to say.

Even takes in another drag. The smoke billows around his head as he exhales. At this point, he’s pretty much hogging the joint, just like the last time.

“You’ve changed a lot, in some ways,” Even says. “But in some ways, you’re exactly the same.”

He sounds almost in awe when he says it. Like he can’t quite believe that it’s true. On some level, Isak thinks he feels the same.

(But who can say that when they think the same thought, they mean the same thing?)

Isak swallows. “Really?”

“Yeah, for example, you started wearing these dorky hats,” Even says, reaching out and tugging at the one on Isak’s head playfully, “but you’re still the grumpiest boy alive.”

Isak snorts out an exasperated laugh.

(Honestly, he doesn’t know what he was expecting.)

“And you’re careful,” Even says. “You’re so careful it breaks my fucking heart.”

Isak’s breath freezes in his chest. He glances over at Even, briefly, because he’s not sure he could handle much more than that right now. His eyes are blazing again, the way they did earlier in Isak’s room, but Isak doesn’t feel like he’s on fire. Isak feels cold, chills running up and down his spine, everything inside him frozen within this single moment. He doesn’t know what to think. Doesn’t know what to say.

Silently, Even offers him the joint. Numbly, he takes it, brings it to his lips. He hardly registers the smoke pouring into his lungs. All he can think about is the look in Even’s eyes.

“Even,” he says, “how are you and Sonja?”

He knows it’s just about one of the worst questions he could ask right now. But he has to know. After everything that’s happened tonight, he just has to.

Even is still staring at him, a searching look. He brings a hand to his face, drags it down. He frowns at the ground.

“I think I’m having trouble with her,” he says.

Isak swallows hard.

“What kind of trouble?” he asks.

“It’s been happening for a while, since before I moved back to Oslo,” Even says. “I think we’ve been growing apart.” He exhales, long, hard, frustrated. “Though the long distance doesn’t help.”

“That’s shitty,” Isak says, roughly.

“Is it?” Even tilts his head. “Part of me feels glad for it.”

“Why?”

“Four years is a long time to be with someone.” He glances at Isak, his mouth pressed in a grim line. “Four years is a long time to be without someone.”

As far as answers go, it’s pretty fucking enigmatic. Irritatingly, Isak’s heart clenches to hear it, anyway.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Do you love her?”

“Yes.” Even takes in a deep breath. “But I don’t know if it’s in the right way, anymore.”

What is Isak supposed to do with that? What is Isak supposed to do when Even won’t explain what the fuck he means?

His head hurts. His heart hurts, too. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to not have this conversation, even though he’s the dumbass who brought this up in the first place.

“There’s no wrong or right way to love someone,” Isak says. The words feel heavy on the tip of his tongue, as if it takes a lot out of him to say those words.

(As if it takes everything.)

Even hums tunelessly. “No?”

“They’re either good for you or they’re not,” Isak says. “That’s just the way it is.”

And how many times has he used those exact words to justify his own shitty choices to himself?

(Too fucking many.)

“It’s complicated,” Even says.

“No, I don’t think it is.” Isak sighs. He’s played this role too many times, the understanding best friend who does his damnedest to give fair advice. Honestly, he’s fucking tired of it. But infuriatingly, he hardly has to think about it to know what to say next. “If she’s good for you, I can understand why you wouldn’t want to break up with her. But if you can’t imagine a future with her, then what’s the point?”

Even doesn’t seem to feel much better after hearing that. He closes his eyes briefly and bows his head, breath rushing out in a long, loud exhale.

(God, even something as simple as giving advice, Isak’s already failing at.)

“But that’s the thing,” Even says. “I don’t know if I can imagine a future with her. But I don’t know if I can imagine myself without her, either. It’s been – it’s been a long fucking time.”

And fuck if Isak doesn’t viscerally know how that feels. His heart throbs in his chest just to hear the words out loud.

“Look, I don’t know anything about you two,” Isak says. “But just be fair to -“ He falters. He takes another breath, and tries again. “Just be fair to her, okay?”

Even’s eyes flutter open, and he stares right at Isak, bright and piercing. It pins him in place, that stare. It makes him feel so fucking helpless.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there on the step, staring at each other. It could be a few seconds. It could be a small eternity. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, either. Doesn’t know what Even is thinking. If he could read minds, if he could see all the mysteries inside Even’s head, maybe Even would finally start to make sense to him.

(But Isak dreads what he’d find there. He dreads it more than anything.)

Finally, Even lets out a breath, and then a shaky laugh. The noise stabs at Isak’s heart.

“I think we should go back inside,” Even says.

Isak struggles to breathe. He swallows past the lump in his throat and tries again. The night air is jagged in his lungs.

“Yeah?” he says. The word feels too big for his mouth.

Even reaches out. His fingers cup Isak’s jaw, gently. The look in Even’s eyes, now, is unbearably soft, and sad. Almost like regret, if Isak believed Even was capable of feeling such a thing.

(Isak is certain his heart has never beaten so hard in his life.)

“Yeah,” Even says, quietly.

He pulls his hand away. He stands up. In another moment, he’s gone.

Isak closes his eyes, and wills the shaking in his chest to still.

He fails.

-

Isak doesn’t leave the flat after the pre-game.

People ask him if he wants to go to the party. He smiles and shakes his head and hopes someone else can make up excuses for him. Maybe they’ll look at his glazed-over eyes and think, “Oh, he’s probably had too much to drink already” or “He’s too cool for parties put on by revue nerds, anyway.” Or maybe they just won’t give enough of a shit to wonder. He’d be happy, either way.

He hovers awkwardly by the door as people put on their shoes, mumbling his good byes and thank yous every time someone walks out the door. They’re all talking to each other, heads bent together and smiling and laughing. The words and the noise blur together in his ears, a disorienting cacophony.

(He says nothing.)

Even’s one of the last people to leave. He twists his head around and finds Isak’s gaze like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like somehow he knew Isak was already looking. For half a moment, Isak almost expects him to ask if he can stay. If he did, Isak isn’t sure how he’d react. Saying no just isn’t an option when it comes to Even.

(But that’s the problem, isn’t it?)

“I’ll talk to you later, then,” Even says. His voice is low and warm. His eyes are warmer. Like a promise he intends to keep.

(It’s fucking unbearable.)

Isak looks down at the ground.

“I hope you have a good time,” Isak says.

He can feel Even’s eyes on him, still. Burning.

“Thanks, Isak,” Even says.

They stand there for a long moment. Isak half-expects him to say something more. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything at all. He just looks.

Finally, he lets out a soft laugh. He reaches out and claps a hand to Isak’s shoulder. He gives it a long, warm squeeze.

And then he’s gone.

Isak lets himself look up as the door closes behind Even with a final-sounding click. He brings a hand up to his shoulder. He brushes his fingers over the fabric of his shirt, right where Even’s touch pressed into his skin. Just a few seconds have passed, but already he’s starting to doubt Even was ever there at all.

You’d think that after everything, Isak would be used to Even leaving him.

He isn’t.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “People don’t have to mean just one thing to you. They’re not meant to fit into neat little boxes in the back of your head. Like, fuck the people who think relationships are one set thing, you know? Write your own damn definitions.”

_iv._

Isak takes his time cleaning up the flat after everyone’s gone. His other roommates left for the party, too, so it really is just him.

(But that’s okay; he’s used to being alone.)

The good thing about cleaning is that he doesn’t have to think about it to do it. He picks up cups and bottles and glasses. Straightens the cushions on the couch. Vacuums up the floor. After a while, it gets easier to pretend the trembling in his fingers and the trembling in his heart aren’t there.

When the living room is more or less clear, he stands in the middle of it and spins around in a slow circle. He allows himself the smallest feeling of satisfaction, a semblance of peace settling over him. As if cleaning up one room in this place somehow means everything else in his life is going to be okay.

It doesn’t take very long for the illusion to fade away, though. It never does.

(Killing his own dreams is one of the easiest things he’s ever done.)

Honestly, it seems like such a stupid thing to wish for. It’s not that he wants everything to be great. Or even good. It’s that he wants to feel, for once, like everything is _okay_. Like he knows how to breathe right. Like he knows how to be a person without feeling ashamed of his own existence every damn second he’s awake.

It’s almost laughably pathetic that he wants nothing more out of his life than the bare fucking minimum.

(And even that, after all this time, feels frustratingly out of his reach.)

Then again, he wishes for plenty of other stupid things he’ll never get, so it’s not like this is anything new. He wishes he didn’t have to ask his dad for rent money, for example. Or, on the flip side of the coin, that he was strong enough to take whatever shit his mom said to him with nothing more than silence and a distant smile. He wishes people would stop talking to him about girls, and he wishes they’d ask him what he wants to talk about instead. He wishes he knew what he actually wanted to talk about. He wishes he knew himself the way everyone else seems to. The way Even seems to.

(He wishes Even had stayed.)

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. What a terrible fucking direction to let his thoughts follow. He’s spent so much of his life shying away from self-indulgence, because wanting things and thinking about them too much almost always ends in disappointment, and at this point that’s the one thing he’s so damn tired of feeling. But all his brain ever seems to want to think about these days is Even, and if he let himself, even for a second, he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to stop.

And if he let himself? Would the world end?

(Would he?)

Maybe that’s why he tried so hard in the past not to think about him. It hurt less if he didn’t.

(But that just made it hurt more when he remembered.)

He didn’t want to admit that for so long. For four fucking years, he tried to fight it. But what’s the point in fighting it now? Even is here again, finally. What use is it to try to protect himself from Even’s absence when it no longer exists?

(Though does he even know that for sure?)

That’s the thing, isn’t it? He used to know exactly where he stood with Even. They were friends, best friends, and that was it. That’s all it was ever going to be. And he was happy with that. He was happy because Even was in his life, and that’s all that mattered.

Then Even went away and what they were stopped mattering.

But he came back, and suddenly it mattered again.

He doesn’t know where they stand now. They’re friends again, and in some ways they’re almost as close as they used to be. They know things about each other no one else really can know. They say things to each other no one else would understand. Even still looks at him like he knows exactly what he wants to say, even when Isak doesn’t say anything.

He can’t deny that there’s still all this fucking distance between them, though. Hundreds of miles and four and a half years, and now that those are gone they still don’t quite know how to bridge the gap. Or, at least, Isak doesn’t. He doesn’t know what Even isn’t telling him. He just knows that it’s a lot.

And that’s the problem with Even, isn’t it?

Even can see right through him. But Isak -

Isak can’t see Even at all.

When he was a kid, he had to sleep with a night light. Not because he was scared of the dark, but because he was scared of the things inside of it. He has never loved the unknown.

It’s scary. It’s fucking terrifying, how much of a goddamn enigma Even is.

Yet buried inside that fear, so deep inside Isak it’s a wonder he knows it exists, is another feeling. It’s new, in some ways, because he’s never felt it about anyone before.

(But at the same time it’s not, because in a different way, he has.)

And that feeling is scary too, in its own way.

(But that’s what makes it real.)

His phone starts to vibrate.

It’s a sudden enough interruption that his heart jumps out of his chest for an awful second, but the sound only lasts for a few moments. He checks the notifications. It’s Even, of course, with his trademark collection of obscure references. He must have left the party already. That was fast. Isak scrolls past a years-old meme and a gif with pulsing, incomprehensible colors to the last message.

 **Fucker**  
_I don’t sleep ‘cause sleep is the cousin of death_

Isak stares at the words. It’s a quote from a Nas song, he’s about eighty percent sure, which means Even didn’t write those words himself. Not really.

(Somehow, it still feels like a sign.)

He lets his vision narrow until all he can see is the glow of his phone screen. He presses his thumb against the call button next to Even’s name. He brings the phone to his ear.

Even answers before Isak has time to think about regretting it.

“Hello?” Even says. His voice is almost as warm over the phone as it would be in person. Isak thinks, for a moment, that the sound of it should be unbearable to him. But it doesn’t make his heart beat faster. It doesn’t even make him nervous. What he feels in his heart, instead, is steadiness. Stability.

(He would almost think it was peace, if only he believed he were the kind of person who could feel something like that.)

“Hey,” Isak says.

He can practically hear the smile in Even’s words. “Did you call me for a reason?”

Isak lets out a long, low exhale.

“I can’t sleep,” he says.

“I mean, I gathered that much, considering we’re exchanging actual human words right now.”

“You can’t, either,” Isak says.

Even doesn’t answer for a moment. Isak wonders if he thinks it’s an accusation. He didn’t mean it as one.

Even huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess you’re right.”

“I was just -” Isak takes in a breath. He reminds himself that Even can’t see him. Can’t see how he’s losing his chill over the most ridiculous things. “I was thinking about it. Those nights you can’t sleep.”

“Yeah?”

“And,” Isak says, “they’re hard to deal with. Harder than anything. Sometimes you wish you existed in a different universe. A universe where you can actually fall asleep at the right time. In the right way.”

There’s another pause. Isak could keep on talking, could name all the different universes where things might be happening in a different way. He knows how stupid it all sounds, though. So if Even wants him to stop talking, he wants to give him the chance to say it.

Even doesn’t ask him to stop talking. Instead, he says, quietly, “Do you want to exist in a different universe?”

It’s not a question Isak had been expecting.

“That’s not the point,” Isak says, because if he stops to think about it, he’s not sure he’ll ever find the answer. “The point... well, the point is, we’re stuck in this one, which means we have to learn how to deal with them. But – you know something about sleepless nights?”

“What’s that?”

Isak takes in a breath.

“They’re easier to deal with when you’re not alone,” he says.

He should be scared shitless, honestly, to admit something like that out loud. He should worry that it’s the silliest goddamn thing Even’s ever heard. But he’s not scared, and he doesn’t worry that it’s silly.

(For once, it feels like he finally knows the right thing to say.)

“So is this is a sleepless night, then?” Even says.

Isak closes his eyes and tries to imagine what Even’s doing on the other end of the line. He’s got his phone pressed close to his ear, probably, whispering into the phone so the rest of his family won’t hear. He might be in bed, huddled under his duvet and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Or he might be all folded up on his windowsill, one arm slung casually over a crooked knee. Looking out into the cold darkness like it’ll never end.

(Whatever he’s doing, Isak can see his eyes the clearest. They’re bright, in the dark. They’re easy to find.)

“What do you think?” Isak says.

The speaker starts crackling loudly. It takes Isak a second to realize Even is sighing.

“I wish it wasn’t a sleepless night,” Even says.

Isak hums. “You have a lot of sleepless nights, don’t you?”

Even laughs at that, though it doesn’t sound like he thinks what Isak said is very funny.

“Sure,” he says. “You could say that.”

“So let’s face them together,” Isak says, trying to sound braver than he really feels, as if this is something they’ve done often. Even when they were kids, though, they hardly ever called each other, mostly because they didn’t need to. “It’ll be easier, right? It’d be easier to do it with you.”

With his eyes closed, there’s nothing to distract him from the sound of Even’s breathing, the loud rhythm of it. Nothing to distract him from the way Even’s breath hitches now.

“I wouldn’t wish my sleepless nights on you, Isak,” Even says.

Isak’s heart clenches hard in his chest, unbidden.

“It’s okay,” he says. He swallows his racing pulse down. “I already have my own.”

“No, but -” The breath rushes out of Even’s lungs in a fast, hard exhale. “It’s like, it’s just you, right? It’s just you and your thoughts. And the universe is above you, it’s all around you. It’s the only thing that sees you, _really_ sees you. But it doesn’t care. It doesn’t give a fuck about you.”

The rhythm of his words is rapid by the end of his ramble, like the words can’t get out of him fast enough. Isak’s not quite sure what any of it has to do with sleepless nights. For some reason, hearing those words makes him sad, anyway.

“Does that bother you?” Isak asks.

Another pause.

“It makes me feel really lonely,” Even says.

“That’s what I’m saying, though,” Isak says. “You don’t have to be.”

“But I guess I kind of think of it as – you’re always alone, aren’t you? Even when you’re physically with someone. Inside your head, you’re always alone.”

The silence lasts longer this time. It catches Isak off guard to hear Even talk like that. There’s a frankness to these words he’s pretty sure hasn’t been there before, at least not in these last few weeks. And it feels like Even should sound sad when he says something like that. But he doesn’t. He just sounds like he believes it.

Then again, maybe that’s not as much of a surprise as he would think. Even is a boy of motion and energy and extremes, and that’s always been true. But Isak remembers those times when Even would stop in his tracks, like everything in his head was going too fast and he didn’t want it to. He’d get all quiet, like his mind was going someplace faraway. Isak used to wonder where it went whenever he got like that.

(He supposes he knows now.)

“That’s depressing,” Isak says.

Even laughs. “Really? I think there’s some comfort to be had there.”

Isak frowns. “How so?”

“If you’re truly always alone, your head is all your own. There’s a freedom to it, the loneliness. No one can control your thoughts.”

Again with the blunt honesty, like it’s no big deal to say something like that. Like it’s no big deal to admit that you’re lonely, and to find comfort in it.

(Isak can’t even imagine it.)

“They couldn’t, anyway,” Isak says. “People can’t control minds.”

A beat of silence. Then, Even huffs out a laugh.

“Well,” he says. “Fair enough.” He pauses. “Didn’t you used to want to control minds? Like, it used to be your favorite super power.”

“I wanted to read minds,” Isak corrects. “And anyway, that’s not what I would want now. If I were a superhero, I mean.”

“Oh?” Isak can practically visualize the eyebrow raise here. “What would you want your superpower to be then?”

(Most days, Isak wishes he could turn invisible.)

“Super strength,” he says. “Like Captain America. Except I’d be - not Captain Norway, I don’t want to represent the whole country. Captain Oslo, maybe?”

Even laughs again, all soft and breathy. “Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, unfortunately.”

“Ugh, you’re right,” Isak says. He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “There goes my aspirations of becoming a vigilante.”

“You’d be shit at it, anyways,” Even says. “All the bad guys would laugh at you.”

“What? Excuse me?” Isak scoffs. “I’d be the best superhero ever. I’d be world famous. I’d become a billionaire like Batman, just because everyone would love me so much they’d shower me in money and love out of sheer gratitude.”

“Superheroes shouldn’t be in it for the fame,” Even says, mock admonishment in his voice. “They’re all about the greater cause.”

“What, and the greater cause can’t be getting rich?” Isak says.

“Wow, prioritizing money over helping people.” Even’s probably shaking his head, now. But still smiling. Always smiling. “I expected better of you, Isak.”

It’s a joke. Isak knows it’s a joke. He still can’t help but take it seriously.

“I wouldn’t, really,” Isak says. “I just... fuck, sometimes helping myself feels hard enough, you know? How am I supposed to help other people when I can’t even help myself?”

He almost expects Even to laugh in response. He imagines that’s what a lot of other people would do if he told them that, if he admitted just how fucking lame he was. And he’d probably laugh with them too, and shrug his shoulders, and say, _yeah, just kidding, but can you imagine being that much of a loser?_

Even doesn’t laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I get what you mean.”

That surprises Isak yet again. He’s never really thought of Even as the kind of person who couldn’t help himself. Even knows himself better than anyone else could know him.

But then, he can’t actually be sure that Even does know himself that well. God knows Isak understands what it’s like not to be the things people think he is.

“Yeah?” Isak says, curious to see if Even will explain.

“I’ve been thinking about something you said earlier,” Even says.

Isak hardly cares that it’s an obvious subject change. Suddenly, the possibilities of what Even could mean seem endlessly horrifying.  “And what was that?”

“ _Just be fair to her_ ,” Even quotes. “That’s what you said. About Sonja, I mean.”

Isak’s heart kicks painfully against his rib cage.

“Yeah, I know,” Isak says, trying to ignore the sudden riot in his chest.

Even takes in a deep breath.

“Do you think I should break up with her, then?”

Isak is pretty sure the question actually makes his heart stop for a second in his chest. For a wild, frightening moment, he can’t breathe.

It’s the bluntness of the question. It’s the way Even says it. Each word carrying its own weight, like he’s been thinking them a long time. But dropped without context, without preamble. Isak wasn’t prepared for this question. He wasn’t prepared for how it would make him feel.

(And how does he feel about it? Like everything could change right here, right now, for better or for worse?

Or like nothing ever will?)

“I can’t answer that question,” Isak says, heartbeat thudding loud in his ears. He figures that’s about as honest as he could ever be about it.

“Why not?” Even says.

Isak swallows.

“I don’t know, Even,” he says, even though he does. “I just think you know best what you should do.”

Even exhales, long and low.

“I don’t know about that,” he says.

“No one else can see your thoughts,” Isak says. “Remember?”

“Fuck.” Even laughs. “You keep on using my own words against me. It’s not fair.”

Isak cracks a smile, despite himself. “You’re just so wise.”

“Well.” At this point, Even’s grin is so easy to visualize Isak hardly has to try. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Isak pauses, considering. “You know what else I say?”

“What else do you say?”

“Whatever you decide about the future,” Isak says, “whatever you decide about Sonja, I support that choice, okay? One hundred percent. I’m here for you.”

In the daylight, this would be the most damning thing he could say.

(In the night time, it is nothing more than the truth. Simple as anything.)

Even makes a soft sound. It’s difficult to decipher over the phone.

“I appreciate that,” Even says. “I do. It’s just… scary.”

“Scary how?” Isak asks. He’s scared of the answer.

“The thought of losing a whole person is the scariest thing there is,” Even says.

(Fuck, Isak knows that feeling well. Too well.)

“But what would be worse,” Isak says, “losing a person, or keeping them when they don’t mean the same thing to you anymore?”

(Isak knows that dilemma well, too.)

“I don’t know,” Even says.

(Are they talking about Sonja anymore? Isak isn’t sure he is.)

“I think you should figure it out,” Isak says.

“You make it sound so easy,” Even says. He doesn’t sound very happy right now. Isak doesn’t know what to do about that. He wants to fix it. When they were kids, he always wanted to fix it whenever Even was sad. He knows now, though, that some things are just beyond his control. Four years is more than enough time to put that one into perspective.

“No,” Isak says. “It’s not. And you don’t have to think about it right now. But - maybe you should think about it at some point.”

“Well,” Even says. “Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I just haven’t been thinking enough.”

(Maybe that’s Isak’s problem, too.)

“Who wants to think about losing the people they love?” Isak says.

(He never thought about it, when he was a kid. Nowadays, it feels like it’s the only thing he knows how to think about.)

Something crackles over the phone, like Even’s shifting positions. “Actually,” he says, “maybe the scariest part wouldn’t be losing her.”

Isak feels his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “No?”

“I think the scariest part is not knowing what comes after,” Even says.

Isak doesn’t ask what Even means by the word _after_ ; he could mean a lot of things.

“You know one thing,” Isak says.

“And what’s that?”

Isak takes in a long breath. And another.

“You know I’ll be here,” he says.

The silence between them now feels full of things they’ve never said.

“Do I know that?” Even says.

That question would hurt, like a stab to the chest, if Isak didn’t know why Even asked it in the first place.

“You do now,” Isak says.

(It’s the most honest thing he’s said all night.)

-

By the time they hang up, they’ve been talking for a little over an hour. It only ends because at that point Isak can hardly go a full sentence without yawning. He tries insisting he can talk for longer, but Even is insistent about ending things now.

“Isn’t that the point?” Even says, sounding more amused than anything at Isak’s valiant attempts at stubbornness. “I thought we were just going to call until the sleeplessness wasn’t a problem anymore. And you’re clearly sleepy.”

“You’re clearly not,” Isak counters. His words come out sounding a little slurred, but he’s pretty sure Even can still understand him.

Even breathes out a laugh. “I think I can manage on my own,” he says.

“So you’re gonna try going to bed too, then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Even.”

“Isak,” Even says.

Isak screws his eyes shut. He’s been doing that a lot this conversation, keeping his eyes closed. Letting the sound of Even’s voice fill him up to the brim.

(He can’t help it. He loves the way Even says his name, like it’s the only word in the world that matters.

He always did.)

“Do you remember that time I stayed at your place over autumn break?” Isak says. “And at the end of the week, you said – you said you’d miss me the next day, even though you were still going to see me?”

“Yeah?”

“I get what you mean,” Isak says. “I didn’t back then, but – I get it now.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, a soft exhale.

“In what way?”

It almost sounds like Even knows what he’s going to say.

(He always sounds like that.)

Isak says it anyway.

“I miss you,” he says.

In the day time, he would sound small, and he would hate it. Right now, the words have never felt so fucking big _._

(And he doesn’t hate this. He doesn’t think he ever could.)

Silence, again. A long and inscrutable silence, save for the sound of Even’s slow and steady breathing.

(Isak would live inside this quiet for the rest of forever, if he could. He would cling onto it with all that he had.)

“Yeah,” Even says. “I know.”

And fuck, that feels big, too. It feels bigger than the whole world. Isak’s heart has never felt so full.

“Good night, Isak,” Even says.

It’s a harmless set of three words. Even sounds so sad saying them. Like he doesn’t want to say them, but he knows he has to anyway.

(Isak thinks he understands that more than he should.)

“Yeah,” Isak says. “Good night.”

The line goes dead. Slowly, he brings his phone to his chest. He breathes.

He would feel this moment like a loss, if closing his eyes didn’t bring sleep sooner than it usually does.

-

 **Fucker** **  
** _So last night was interesting_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_You’re going to have to be more specific than that_  
_There’s a lot of things about last night that might count as interesting_ _  
Depending on your definition of interesting_

 **Fucker** **  
** _Well, what’s your definition of interesting?_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_I don’t know_ _  
_ _The opposite of boring I guess_

 **Fucker** ****  
_Wow_ _  
_ _You’re so good with words, Isak_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _You can’t see me right now but I’m holding my middle finger up at my phone_

 **Fucker** ****  
_Haha_ _  
_ _Was mostly just thinking about how silly you get when you’re sleep deprived_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Excuse you I wasn’t being silly_ _  
_ _I was 100% serious the whole time_

 **Fucker** ****  
_Yeah_ _  
_ _I know_

 **Isak Valtersen**  
_You do?_

 **Fucker** **  
** _Of course_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Okay_ _  
_ _It was a good conversation wasn’t it?_

 **Fucker** ****  
_Yeah_ _  
_ _You gave me a lot of things to think about_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _… is that a good thing or a bad thing_

 **Fucker** ****  
_Good_ _  
_ _I’ve got to go do something important now_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _The timing of that message seems kind of ominous_

 **Fucker** ****  
_Don’t worry_ _  
_ _I’ll tell you about it later_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Yeah?_

 **Fucker** **  
** _Yeah_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_I’m putting my faith in you okay_ _  
_ _Don’t let me down_

 **Fucker** **  
** _Never_

-

They walk back home together after school on Monday.

Isak almost doesn’t let Even join him. He’d told the boys he needed the afternoon to catch up on his reading, and that’s at least partially true. He’s not behind on the material yet, but if he’s not careful he could easily get there. The thought makes him more nervous than it should. On the most logical level, he knows he doesn’t really need this time in the long run. He could still manage if he took a break, every now and then.

(If only he knew how.)

When Even found him after his last class, Isak almost told him the same, that he just had way too much homework to do. But then Even asked if he could help him study, and Isak looked up at him, and Even’s smile was all it took for him to falter.

(Sometimes, he can be so goddamn predictable, it’s embarrassing.)

Still. He has his doubts.

“You were always such a pain in my ass way back when,” Isak says when they get back to his flat. “I don’t know how you could help me now.”

“Oh, I’ll be so much help,” Even says. “I’ll be your moral support. Your cheerleader. A guiding beacon of light to the end of the tunnel.”

“None of that sounds helpful at all,” Isak says. He pulls out his biology textbook and sits at the kitchen table. “Cheerleaders are loud. And lights are bright.”

Even settles into the chair next to him. “A quiet cheerleader, then?”

Isak snorts. “You, quiet?”

The corner of Even’s mouth twitches upward. “Touché.”

He reaches into his bag, but the only thing he pulls out is a permanent marker and a piece of paper.

“Didn’t you bring any work to do?” Isak says, raising his eyebrows.

“You sound so surprised,” Even says.

Well, okay. Isak supposes this isn’t anything new, either.

They settle into silence as Isak starts his reading. It is admittedly a bit difficult to concentrate when Even is sitting so close by, mostly because Isak has always had more trouble focusing with other people in the room. But he can do this, he’s pretty sure, especially since Even’s being so quiet right now. He just needs to pay more attention.

It doesn’t take long, though, for him to become aware of Even’s restlessness. To be fair, it’s kind of hard to ignore when Even keeps on digging his marker into the piece of paper and scribbling out his efforts while making quietly dissatisfied noises under his breath, his leg bouncing up and down under the table.

“Hey,” Isak says, knocking his knee against Even’s, “you doing okay over there?”

Even looks over at him. His eyes light up. Without warning, he reaches out and draws a long line on Isak’s forearm.

Immediately, Isak jerks his arm away. “What was that for?”

Even is staring at him, now, intently. “Can I kidnap your arm?”

Isak feels his eyebrows shoot up, almost of their own accord. “Why?”

Even reaches out and swipes his thumb over the line of sharpie etched on Isak’s arm. A shiver runs its way down Isak’s spine, unbidden.

(Fuck, when will his body learn how to react to things in a normal fucking way?)

“Artistic purposes,” Even says, grinning.

Christ. What a little shit.

Still, he supposes it can’t hurt. It’s not the most outlandish thing Even has ever asked of him. With a long-suffering sigh, he places his arm on the table between them. That’s about as much of an invitation Even’s going to get.

Even’s grin brightens. He uncaps the marker, and begins to draw.

The tip of the marker is a strange sensation against his skin. It’s not painful, but it’s pointed. Makes his skin tingle in a weirdly pleasant way. What’s more difficult to ignore is Even’s fingertips digging into his arm as he holds it in place. Isak stares at the words in his textbook harder. Maybe if he doesn’t look at Even, he can just forget this is happening to him.

But not looking at Even somehow makes it worse. Isak’s got nothing to distract him, now, from the warmth of Even’s hand. It slides across his arm in tandem with the marker, and each time it moves Isak’s heartbeat jumps irritatingly in his chest just because each time he doesn’t expect it to.

He can feel Even’s breath, too, as he hunches over his work. He can feel the rhythm of his exhales against the back of his hand. He can hear it.

His biology textbook doesn’t exactly count as a distraction when he’s been reading the same paragraph for the past two minutes.

Carefully but firmly, Even pulls at his arm until Isak obediently flips it over. He starts drawing on the soft inside of his arm. The skin there is more sensitive than Isak expected it to be. The first few strokes actually make him twitch a little in his seat. Even’s long fingers dig into his pulse. He starts in on his wrist.

(Isak is fairly certain this is what hell must feel like.)

“I need to tell you something,” Even says.

Instinctively, Isak looks over at him. This turns out to be a mistake. He is not in any way prepared for the sight of Even with his tongue between his teeth and a look of intense concentration in his eyes. He’s infinitely grateful that stare isn’t turned on him, because he’s not sure he could survive that.

As it is, when he looks away, he can’t ignore the sudden heat that floods his gut.

Isak swallows hard. “What you mentioned yesterday, you mean?”

“Something like that.” The strokes of the marker don’t stop. “I broke up with Sonja.”

Now Isak can’t help but stare at him. But there’s no safe place to look. Not his hands, not his face, certainly not his _tongue_. He fixates on a spot on the wall behind Even instead.

“Really?” he says.

“Again,” Even says. “You sound so surprised.”

(Even doesn’t. Even doesn’t sound like anything at all.)

“I don’t know,” Isak says. “You had no idea if you wanted to break up with her just two nights ago. It’s a bit sudden.”

Even shrugs. He doesn’t look up.

“I guess it just felt like the right thing to do,” he says.

When he puts it like that, Isak supposes that makes sense. Even’s not the kind of person who waits on a decision once he’s actually made it.

“Why didn’t it feel like the right thing to do before?” Isak asks.

Even sighs. Isak feels that against his arm, too.

“Look, the thing you have to understand about Sonja is,” Even says, “she’s a good person. She is. She cares so fucking much.”

All things considered, Isak decides, there are a lot of things he would rather talk about than how good of a person Sonja is with Even.

“Wow,” Isak says. “Why’d you break up with her, then, if she’s such a good person?”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. The words taste bitter on his tongue. But Even doesn’t seem to notice how ugly they are. He just keeps on drawing.

“I guess after a while it just felt like she didn’t really see me as a person anymore,” Even says. “Like I was just - just some fucking charity case or something. Just something else on her list of things to care about. And like, okay, I know that she doesn’t really see me that way. But Isak, she gave me so much. What could I give back to her that could possibly measure up?”

Even’s blinking hard, now, and rapidly. For a terrifying second, Isak has no idea what to say.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to figure it out. Even keeps talking.

“And, like, that’s not a healthy mindset to have in a relationship. I’d know, I’ve been doing this thing for four fucking years. But I guess that’s mostly why I did it. I’m tired of feeling so damn inadequate, you know? I’m tired of her just - just looking right through me. I don’t want that. I want to be with someone who’ll look at me and see _me_. Not just the person I could be.”

It’s a little overwhelming to hear Even talk for this long about something so personal. They didn’t usually talk about things that way when they were kids. They just figured some things went without saying.

But it’s been four years since then. After that kind of time apart, pretty much anything Even does is overwhelming.

And Isak’s still not sure he gets what Even is saying. He talks and he talks, but his words remain a mystery.

Isak clears his throat. “So, uh… What did she say, then? When you said…”

“She agreed,” Even says. Nonchalantly. Matter of fact. Like he’s not currently discussing the end of a four year relationship. Like it’s not a big deal at all.

But he won’t look at him. That seems significant, somehow.

“Agreed?” Isak echoes.

“That we should break up,” Even clarifies. “Said something about how this long distance thing wasn’t working out so well. Like, we’re in different places physically, but also emotionally? That’s how she put it. Since she’s working and actually doing something with her life, and I’m still - “

Even’s fingers tighten around Isak’s arm. Isak pretends not to notice.

(His heartbeat notices.)

“Still what?” Isak says.

“Stuck, is what I was going to say.” Even lets out a humorless laugh. “Then I realized it made no sense.”

Isak’s throat feels tight, all of a sudden. He wants to help Even feel better. He wants him to stop sounding like this, like he’s a person Isak barely recognizes.

But he’s being honest right now, isn’t he? That means this is part of who Even is, too. Even if Isak has never seen it before.

“I think it makes sense,” Isak says.

For the first time this whole conversation, Even’s eyes flicker up. They meet Isak’s gaze steadily.

“Yeah?” Even says.

“Yeah,” Isak says. He’s amazed his voice sounds so calm when that’s not how he feels inside himself at all. Then again, this is important, and he doesn’t think either of them can afford for him to sound like anything else.

Even nods. He stares at Isak like he’s trying to take him all in, or like something bad will happen if he looks away, even for a second.

Isak wants to tell him that nothing will happen. Isak wants to say he’ll be here for him forever. He can’t, though. How can he make promises when he doesn’t even believe in them?

He takes in a deep breath. He tries to say something else.

“But, you know, for what it’s worth,” he says, “I don’t think you are. Stuck, I mean.”

He watches the motion of Even’s throat as he swallows.

“No?” Even says.

Isak forces himself not to look away.

“I think you’re exactly where you need to be,” he says.

Even doesn’t look away, either. His eyes widen, almost imperceptibly. His hand stays on Isak’s arm. And they stare at each other. And they stare. And Isak feels the silence of the moment echoing inside him, throbbing in his chest. The seconds pass by.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t think.

Even clears his throat.

The silence inside him becomes a slow ache.

“Anyway.” Even smiles, a small, rueful curve of his lips. “She also asked if there was someone new. Naturally.”

Isak’s heart isn’t sure whether it should be rising or falling right now. He isn’t sure, either.

“Is there?” Isak says. “Someone new?”

Even’s smile melts into something softer. Something unbearably sweet.

“No,” he says. “Not someone new.”

Isak feels his eyes widen and his lips part, almost of their own volition. Almost like it’s happening to someone else. Everything inside him is still. Everything inside him is silent.

(Everything inside him is utter fucking chaos.)

Isak thinks his face right now is probably objectively the most ridiculous thing in the world, but Even doesn’t laugh. His smile just grows kinder.

“I’m done, by the way,” Even says. “With your arm.”

Isak looks down, not trusting himself to do anything else. He’s amazed Even was able to work so quickly. The skin of his arm is a riot of scribbles and drawings, so crowded together he can hardly make out any of it. The only thing his eyes manage to pick out is a string of words scrawled next to his elbow.

 _But a thug changes and love changes_ _  
_ _And best friends become strangers_

His breath catches in his throat.

“What do you think?” Even says.

His long fingers are still pressed to the inside of his wrist.

Isak tries to take in a breath. It trembles in the pit of his gut.

“I think,” Isak says, “I’m going to get ink poisoning.”

The comment surprises a laugh out of Even. His eyes crinkle up. He takes his hand away. Isak doesn’t feel the phantom warmth it leaves behind as a loss.

(He doesn’t.)

“It’ll wash away if you scrub hard enough in the shower,” Even says. “Knowing you, though, you’ll be too lazy.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “So fucking rude.”

Even’s answering grin is brighter than anything. “Would you have it any other way?”

(He wouldn’t.)

-

He does try to scrub it off, more because it seems like something he should do rather than something he actually wants to do. The stuff on the inside of his arm fades away without much effort. The lyrics he read earlier are the first to go.

He gives up on the other side of his arm, though. On that side, the drawings stubbornly refuse to budge, aside from the slightest fading of their edges. For half a moment, he thinks about trying to scrub them off anyway. But Even worked so hard on this shit. It would kind of be an asshole move to get rid of it so quickly, wouldn’t it?

And maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to let Even’s mark stay on his body, if only for a little while. Maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to hold on to the parts of Even he leaves behind for as long as he can.

(And maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible thing for the whole world to see.)

-

Sana sees his arm in biology the next morning. She raises her eyebrows at him.

He pulls his sleeve down, though it’s not long enough to cover it completely.

“What?” he mumbles.

“Did you do the assignment for today?” she says. It’s her usual no-nonsense way of saying things, all clipped words and no smiles, but today she asks the question without any real bite. It seems at the very least like a genuine inquiry.

He rolls his eyes anyway. “Are you going to ask to copy off of me or something, because if so - “

“Calm down,” she says. “I just thought it might be a good idea to check our answers.”

He blinks at her. She doesn’t usually do the collaboration thing with him if she doesn’t have to. But her voice is serious and her eyes are sincere, like she actually doesn’t mind doing a decent thing for Isak today. He wonders what he’s done recently to deserve such treatment. Just last week, they’d argued for almost five minutes about their answers before the teacher made them turn in their work, finished or not. And then they’d argued about whose fault it was.

Isak sighs. “Okay, yeah, sure. Fine.” He slides his paper over to her. “Knock yourself out.”

Sana takes the page from him, but she doesn’t do anything with it. Her lips are pursed like she’s turning something over in her mind. Does she want to say something to him? He almost can’t wrap his head around it. Sana Bakkoush, deigning to say something serious and unrelated to class to him. Alert the presses, everyone.

“At the pre-game last week,” she says finally. “You seemed kind of uncomfortable.”

Isak feels his eyebrows shooting up. So she had noticed him that night, then. But why does it matter enough to mention now? “Uh, okay. So?”

“You know you didn’t have to be there if you didn’t want to, right?” she says. Her tone is way too casual for the words. Makes it sound way too goddamn easy.

Isak shrugs nonchalantly. If that’s how she’s playing it, that’s how he’ll play it, too. “Everyone else seemed to want me to be there,” he says.

She gives him a long, level look, like what he said is bullshit and she knows it.

(So that makes two of them, then.)

“And that matters more than what you want?” she says.

He frowns at her. “What are you trying to get at?”

She sighs. “Look, you can be a pain sometimes, Isak, but I know you’re going through a lot. I’m not stupid. I just wonder if you know that, too.”

He stares at her.

“And I don’t know if anyone’s asked you that before,” she says with a shrug. “That’s all.”

She slides his homework back to him.

“”We have all the same answers, by the way, so I guess you’ll be fine,” she says.

Isak is almost certain she didn’t even look at his sheet.

“Thanks,” he says dryly.

“No problem,” she says. The incredible thing is, she actually seems to mean it.

-

“It occurs to me,” Even says on the way back to Isak’s flat, “that now that we’ve got you hooked on Baz Luhrmann, I have got to get you to watch more.”

“I’m not hooked on Baz Luhrmann,” Isak says indignantly, though in the grand scheme of things it’s probably not the worst thing he could be accused of.

“Were you into _Romeo + Juliet_?” Even says, raising an eyebrow.

No, of course he wasn’t into _Romeo + Juliet_. What the fuck does Even take him for?

Or, at least, that’s what he tries to think. But then he remembers the music and how it made him feel things that were almost impossible to name. He remembers how the acting made him feel even more nameless things. He remembers the way his whole chest had felt watching the scene before Even paused the movie, filled with dread and resignation and fear and acceptance, all at once, about an ending he had no control over. And he’d been legitimately startled when the movie stopped playing. For a while there, it had felt less like he was watching something and more like he was living it.

So maybe he was into it. Maybe he really loved that movie, actually. The thing is, he’s never been a fan of epically tragic love stories. He doesn’t need a movie to tell him the world is utter shit to people who want to love people they’re not supposed to love. That’s just his life, isn’t it?

(That’s just his whole fucking life.)

But there’s just something about this one that feels different. There’s something about the way everything unfolds, like some bizarre technicolored fever dream. All these colors and noises, and there’s so much of them, and they’re all meant to be there. It’s overwhelming to watch a movie like that. But the ordered chaos steadies his heartbeat too, somehow. It centers him.

(That’s how he felt in the dark, too, with Even’s fingers ghosting over his skin and his stare burning itself into his vision. Caught in the middle between somewhere achingly familiar and somewhere utterly terrifying.)

“Maybe,” Isak says. “I don’t know, it was okay.”

Even gives him a knowing smile. What a bastard.

“Have you heard of _The Get Down_?” he says.

“That sounds really stupid,” Isak informs him, even though it doesn’t, not really.

“You’d like it.” Even says it like a self-evident truth. “It’s got hip hop music and gritty shoot-out scenes and everything your seventeen year old heart loves.”

Isak frowns. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be offended at that,” he says.

“I’m just being honest,” Even says with an easy shrug. “My man Baz directs the first episode.”

“Why do you keep calling him your man Baz? You’ve never even met him.”

Even heaves a dramatic sigh and presses a hand to his chest. “A man can dream.”

“Jesus,” Isak says. “You’re such a fanboy, it’s embarrassing.”

“Not to me, it isn’t,” Even says.

“Of course not,” Isak says. Even and embarrassment. They just don’t go well together.

Even smiles. “So you’re going to watch it, then.”

“Like you’re giving me a choice,” Isak says.

“You’re right,” Even says cheerfully. “I’m not.”

Though it’s not for lack of trying, all things considered. Isak knows Even actually does give him a choice, every time. It’s just that for Isak, it doesn’t really matter. He’ll always say the same thing, no matter what Even is asking of him.

(Always.)

-

This time, they watch it in the living room. No one’s home yet, so Even puts the volume on as high as it’ll get. There’s enough room on the couch for the both of them, but Even sprawls over the length of the couch and lets part of his upper body rest on Isak’s, almost thoughtlessly. He did that a lot when they were kids. He’d collapse on Isak and stay there until Isak pushed him away. Back then, Isak always did.

Now, he doesn’t. Even leans on him and rests his head against his shoulder, and Isak lets him.

He almost expects Even to make a comment about it. _Isak Valtersen not pushing me off at the earliest opportunity? What is this world we live in?_ Even doesn’t say anything, though. He just reaches for the laptop and hits play.

Isak has to wonder how he managed to find himself in this position yet again. Two hours of feeling the warmth of Even’s body against his. Two hours of pretending his heart isn’t trying to beat itself out of his chest.

(Two hours is a long fucking time.)

Even was right, though. Once he’s able to get past the circumstances, he finds he does like this show. A lot, actually. It’s fresh and different and honest in a way Isak wishes he could be. And it’s not that heavy. There’s violence and death, sure, but it feels like the kind of violence and death that happens in real life. The people in the show feel so real.

If he and Even were two kids growing up in the 70’s, he imagines Even would be someone like Shaolin Fantastic. Talented at just about everything he puts his hands on, but with a single fervent dream burning inside him like a steadfast candle.

And Isak might be Zeke. Though he’s no poet, he thinks he knows a little about what it’s like to have all these words inside of you and no easy way to get them out.

Then again, maybe Even is Zeke, the kind of guy who will do something as utterly fucking ridiculous as running halfway across town through gang brawls and shoot-outs, just to get a dumb record for a girl he likes.

And maybe Isak is Shao, all closed in on himself, hard edges on the outside, but with soft insides he never lets anyone see. Perpetually running from past demons, inescapable and thirsting for his blood.

(Shao, who doesn’t understand being in love with women.)

“Trying to figure something out,” Isak says.

“Hm?”

Isak feels the vibration of the sound against his body more than he hears it.

He swallows. “If we were Zeke and Shao. I can’t decide who’d be who. You’re the artist, so maybe you’d be Shao. But you’re also the hopeless romantic, so maybe you’re Zeke.”

Even makes a noncommittal noise. “Who says either of us have to be either one of them?”

Isak frowns. “Well, I mean, obviously, yeah, but - ”

“I’m just saying,” Even says. “Maybe we’re both of them. Maybe we’re neither. Maybe that doesn’t matter.”

“I know it doesn’t matter,” Isak says. “I just…”

“You’d feel better knowing,” Even says. “What we are.”

“Yeah,” Isak says. “Something like that.”

“Then I’d say,” Even says, “we can be whatever you want us to be.”

But what if that’s the problem?

What if Isak doesn’t know what he wants?

(What if he’s never let himself want for long enough to know?)

What if, what if. The words spin around his head like one of Shao’s vinyl records. He doesn’t know if they’ll ever make sense to him.

At some point, the episode ends. The room is left in silence. Even’s head slid down him a while ago, and now it’s resting on his chest. He looks down at Even, and Even is looking back. His eyes are big and warm and bright, and for a moment, a whole moment, Isak thinks he could let them swallow him whole.

(If Isak was capable of letting himself want, he thinks he’d want this. He would want it more than anything.)

“The others will probably be getting home soon,” Isak says.

Even nods slowly. He reaches out one hand. He takes hold of Isak’s fingers. His grip tightens around them.

Their fingers fit together easily. Isak’s palm doesn't sweat. It almost hurts to know how dizzyingly perfect this feels.

And it’s not a touch Isak could brush off as an accident, a mere matter of circumstance. This is a deliberate choice, and Even is looking at him like he’s asking him to make it.

Isak doesn’t say anything, because he can’t think of anything that wouldn’t just be stating the obvious. Instead, he lets Even hold his hand. He lets himself look at him. He lets the silence surround them until the air he breathes is sharp with it.

And for once, he lets himself _feel_.

-

Later –

After Eskild comes in from work, the door swinging open with a startling crash, and Isak pulls his hand from Even’s grip like he’s flinching away from an open flame –

After Even orders pizza for the whole flat, and Eskild declares him the love of his life –

After Isak and Even eat the pizza straight from the box, and Even laughs at Isak for spending the time to pick off all the toppings he hates instead of just asking him to order something different –

After Isak walks Even to the door and almost asks him to stay, only doesn’t because the way Even smiles at him is enough to make him believe that next time he won’t have to –

Later, Isak lies on his bed, and he thinks –

(This is the way things were. This is the way things are going to be.)

And he almost believes it.

-

Isak wakes up to three new messages from Even and a clear head.

 **Fucker**  
_Mom wants to meet you_  
_She’s mad i’ve kept you from her this long_ _  
I think she loves you more than me </3_

It’s the best he’s felt in ages.

Eskild and Noora are sitting at the table when Isak goes into the kitchen for coffee. They’re already deep in conversation, so Isak decides it’s best if he doesn’t interrupt whatever is going on between them. They don’t bother to whisper, though, so it’s pretty much impossible to tune out the noise. He pours his cereal and pretends he’s not listening.

“ - But we’re friends, Eskild, I mean - “

“It’s really not that complicated,” Eskild says patiently.

Noora rakes her fingers through her hair. “I literally just got out of a messy break-up, Eskild.”

Eskild takes hold of her hands. “Say something, Noora. That’s the only way you can know for sure.”

“But won’t I be messing everything up? We’re _friends_ , Eskild, I can’t just – I don’t want to fuck up yet another thing.”

The sigh she lets out trembles in the air. Isak would feel a pang of sympathy for her, if he wasn’t already busy trying to remember that he knows how to breathe.

“So what,” Eskild says, mouth twisting upward in a wry smile, “you can be friends with someone and you can be in love with them but not at the same time?”

Noora frowns. “That’s not what I - “

“You know,” Eskild says, “people don’t have to mean just one thing to you. They’re not meant to fit into neat little boxes in the back of your head. Like, fuck the people who think relationships are one set thing, you know? Write your own damn definitions.”

Noora is silent for a moment. Then, she laughs.

“You sound like a pretentious asshole.”

Eskild shrugs. “Whatever. You get it, right?”

“Yeah,” Noora says, smiling slightly. “I get it.”

Isak pours coffee into a mug and wraps his hands around the warm ceramic. The heat is comforting when nestled in his palms like this. It’s tangible against his fingers. It’s grounding.

He’d almost feel bad for listening, if he could think over the sound of his pounding heart.

-

What would he write in the dictionary for him and Even, if he were to write his own definitions?

Even is easy. He barely has to think about it before he knows. Even is the bitterness of coffee and the warmth of the pale morning sun. Even is a black and white film rewinding on a VCR. He’s the warmth of an old, familiar sweater, at the same time as he’s the thrill that twists your stomach right before a roller coaster drops you down a steep hill. He’s bike rides after midnight. Smiles in the dark.

(Even is a well-kept secret.)

Trying to define himself is a little harder, but he manages it in the end. He’s rain, but he doesn’t come with thunder and lightning, and he’s not a light drizzle, either. He’s the kind of rain that lingers for a week, a melancholy constant that seeps into your very pores. He’s the puddles on the ground the rain leaves behind. He’s an invisible kind of rain, the kind you forget is there until it’s gone.

(Isak is the middle ground.)

He starts to write a definition for the two of them, and that’s where he gets stuck. He turns his words every which way in his head, trying to make them fit in a way that makes sense. But no matter how late he stays up trying to figure it out, all he can come up with is the word _together_ , and it marches through his thoughts like the words to a song he can’t remember, over and over and over again.

-

 **Mahdi Disi** **  
** _If you’re surprised isak valtersen actually deigned to hang out with us last night clap your hands_

 **Magnus Fossbakken** **  
** _*_ [ _gif_ ](http://imgur.com/dhMeAzK) _*_

 **Jonas Vasquez** **  
** _0/10 not enough beer_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_*_ [ _gif_ ](http://p.fod4.com/p/media/877ebc4f55/lHXWok2MQk66MDCPdFCM_Whose%20Line%20Is%20It.gif) _*_  
_I don’t even know why I bothered_ _  
You guys are terrible at fifa_

 **Jonas Vasquez** **  
** _Just because none of the rest of us spend half our time playing that game_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _fu_

 **Magnus Fossbakken** ****  
_Okay seriously though you’ve been so MIA lately_ _  
_ _What the fuck gives??_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_You see mags there’s this thing where my life doesn’t actually revolve around you_ _  
_ _Shocking I know_

 **Magnus Fossbakken** **  
** _Okay but who would you be without us honestly_

 **Mahdi Disi** **  
** _^_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Sane_

 **Magnus Fossbakken** **  
** _Rude fucker!_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _Who would you be without my rudeness_

 **Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_Calm down children_ **  
** _I need to ask, is everyone here down for a pre-game Friday?_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Can’t_ _  
_ _Got plans already_

 **Magnus Fossbakken** **  
** _See this is what i’m TALKING about_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _I’ll make it up to you guys soon_

 **Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_Definitely holding you to that promise_ _  
_ _Good luck with whatever’s going on Friday?_

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Yeah_ _  
_ _Thanks_

-

Friday night, Even invites him over to his place so he can finally meet his parents again. Isak is more nervous about it than he feels like he should be. After all, once upon a time, he spent an absurd amount of his time in their house. It’s not like he has to make a good first impression. He doesn’t have to make a first impression at all. He just has to try not to spoil an already-existent impression.

(Put like that, it almost sounds easy.)

Despite his nerves, he’s pretty sure it’s kind of a dick move to say no when actual adults you once knew well invite you over, so he doesn’t. Instead, Even meets him after his last class, and they take the tram back to his place, and Isak spends the whole way there pretending he’s not writing and rewriting scripts for what to say in the back of his mind.

As it turns out, none of his scripts end up being useful. When they open the door, Even’s mom is there, and without hesitation she pulls him into a long embrace. All the words Isak wondered if he should say – _hello, nice to meet you, again I mean, and how have you been these last four years?_ – fade away as easily as if they were never there at all.

She pulls him into the house, telling him that Even’s dad won’t be home until dinner time so they should feel free to hang out in Even’s room like they always used to, don’t let her stop them, but dear _god_ , hasn’t Isak grown? Isak casts a glance behind him at Even, a little overwhelmed, but Even doesn’t say anything. He just smiles.

And Isak looks back at Even’s mom, and he smiles, too.

(Four years can change a lot, but it can’t change everything. He’s only just now starting to get what exactly that means.)

They have dinner when Even’s dad gets back from work. The food tastes better than he remembers. Even’s parents, on the other hand, both look exactly the same.

And at this table, he feels at ease. Being with this family that isn’t his was one of the only things that could make him feel better in a permanent-seeming way, back when he was a kid. For some reason, he never seemed to mind that thought as much as he felt he should have.

(He certainly doesn’t mind it now.)

After dinner, the adults usher them away, the usual routine. They break out Even’s Game Cube and they play all the old standbys, Super Smash Bros, Mario Kart. Even kicks his ass too many times for him to count. Same old.

Isak looks over at Even. He’s leaned back on his elbows with his long legs stretched out in front of him, the way he used to sit whenever they played games together. Isak used to take in the long, open lines of his body in one sweeping glance when he was sure Even couldn’t tell he was looking, used to drink in the lightheartedness in his eyes, the way he’d bite his lower lip when he was concentrating especially hard on something. It’s one of the few self-indulgences he’s ever let himself have.

He lets himself have it now, because frankly Even looks even better than he did four years ago, and Isak no longer feels much hesitance about admitting that, even if it’s only to himself.

This time, though, Even’s eyes flicker over to him as soon as he looks. He lifts his eyebrows, a slow challenge. And he grins, and the way it unfurls across his face feels like a challenge, too.

“Getting bored?” Even says.

 _Never_ , is Isak’s first thought. _I could never get bored with you._

“Maybe a little,” he says out loud.

Even grins wider.

“So let’s get out of here,” he says.

Considering the way this night’s been going, the way it feels like all the other nights they used to share, Isak finds he’s not surprised to hear him say that at all.

“Okay,” Isak says.

(And maybe that’s not much of a surprise, either.)

-

Between the two of them, they only have one bike. Logic dictates Even should be the one to steer it, and Isak should be the one sitting behind him. He keeps his hands balanced precariously on Even’s waist, and he tries not to think too much about the warmth under his palms, or where the warmth is coming from.

( _Trying_ being a bit of a loose term, in this case.)

They ride in the dark for a long time. The air is sharp and cool against Isak’s cheekbones. The night around them feels uncertain, in a way, like it doesn’t know what it wants to be quite yet.

“Where are we going?” Isak asks.

Even laughs. Isak feels it under his hands.

“You never learn, Isak,” he says. “It doesn’t actually matter.”

“Why not?”

Even glances over his shoulder at Isak. This is probably not the safest thing he could be doing. Neither of them seem to mind.

“There are other things that matter more,” Even says.

(God. As if Isak needed another reason for his insides to feel like they were strangling themselves.)

The blurry streets around them are starting to feel familiar, somehow. He twists his head around, trying to read the street signs. It’s not until they pass the street’s first row of houses that he realizes where they are with a lurch in the pit of his gut.

“This is where we used to live,” he says.

Even says nothing. He just rides on, past Isak’s old house, past Even’s old house.

Isak’s breathe shudders out of his lungs as they pass by. The sheer familiarity of it is a cold ache in his chest. He lived here almost his whole life, up until just a few months ago. But it’s only now, with Even next to him, that it almost feels like home again.

(He officially gave up that word when he moved out. But honestly, he thinks that word stopped belonging to him years ago.)

And as they continue their journey in the dark, it occurs to Isak that he knows where Even is riding to. He thinks he knew it all along.

Even skids to a stop, and they get off, and Isak looks around. It’s the stupid goddamned playground they found, months before Even moved away.

(Of course it is.)

Isak hasn’t been to this place in over four years. It seems pretty well-maintained, hardly looks different from how he remembers. In better shape, even. They’ve replaced the swings with something that looks like it can actually stand up on its own, and the slides look shinier, more polished, though it’s not so easy to tell when it’s so dark.

Even flashes him a grin. Isak supposes he doesn’t need light to see some things.

“I kind of missed this place,” Even says.

“Of course you did,” Isak says.

(He didn’t miss it.)

Even walks over to the swings and gives one of them a light push. “Remember the first thing we ever did here?”

Isak snorts. “How could I ever forget? It was one of those dumb challenges.”

(Now those, Isak might miss a little.)

“It’s been a long time since we had one of those,” Even says.

“Yeah,” Isak says. “It really has.”

Even twists around and gives Isak another smile. “Fuck, the nostalgia though. It’s hitting me right here.” He pounds a fist to his chest.

(At least it’s not just him.)

“If we’re here for old time’s sake,” Isak says, “we could have another challenge, too.”

“For old time’s sake,” Even echoes. “Are you sure?”

(No.)

“Yeah, totally,” Isak says. “Whoever swings highest wins.”

(The very first thing they ever did here.)

“Okay.” Even climbs into the swing. “Punishment and everything?”

Isak claims the one next to him. “Punishment and everything.”

He pushes off from the ground, letting the swing carry him back and forth. When he was a kid, he used to think swinging was one of the most thrilling things there was. You didn’t have anything strapping you in, for one. The only thing keeping you from falling to the ground was your very own hands, clutching the chains of the swing like your life depended on it.

Of course, he could never swing high enough that a fall to the ground would matter that much. But he liked the idea of it. He liked the idea of his own strength keeping himself from falling. He used to believe in it very much.

He doesn’t know, exactly, when that changed, but at some point, it must have.

Swinging back and forth now doesn’t feel quite the same. The motion of it is actually kind of relaxing. If he leans his head back and flings his legs out, at the highest point of his arc he can almost pretend he’s flying up into the sky.

“Do you ever wish you could touch the stars?” Even says.

(Sometimes, he does. Sometimes he wishes he could know the whole universe.)

“No,” Isak says. He closes his eyes. Letting himself swing in the dark blindly is almost scary. Then again, maybe it’s even less scary when he can’t see where the ground is.

“No?” Even says.

“I mean, I’d die,” Isak says.

Even huffs out a laugh. “You would say that.”

“And what about you?” Isak says. “What would you say?”

“I don’t wish it, either,” Even says.

“Really?” Isak says, surprised. If that’s the case, why’d he ask?

“Yeah,” Even says. “I guess I’ve just never really thought about what’s out there. There’s already so much going on here, as it is.”

(Isak doesn’t know if he agrees. Sometimes, it feels like nothing’s happening to him at all.)

“Like what?” Isak says.

“Like this,” Even says.

Isak doesn’t ask him what he means. The possibilities are kind of incredibly terrifying.

“And you’re happy with this?” Isak says. For some reason, it feels like a safer question to ask.

“Yes,” Even says, softly. “I think so.”

(Isak thinks he is, too. That’s the scariest part of all.)

Isak opens his eyes. Even is swinging higher than Isak is. Of course he is. Him and his fucking legs. Isak doesn’t know why he suggested this if he knew what would happen all along.

(Then again. Maybe he does, a little.)

Isak digs his heels into the ground and comes to a sudden stop.

Even stops too, which surprises Isak a little. He’d almost expected him to just keep on going.

“Well,” Even says. “That was easy.”

“Thanks for rubbing it in,” Isak says, though he can’t bring himself to say it with too much malice.

Even shrugs. “I am nothing but the most gracious of winners.”

“Uh huh,” Isak says.

“And you’re nothing but the sorest of losers,” Even says.

“Right.”

The brief silence that settles between them after that is gentle. Gentle, and forgiving. But waiting for something. Somehow, Isak feels like they’re both waiting for it.

“So,” Even says. “I guess I get to decide what you have to do now.”

“Yeah.” Isak lets out a breath. “Use your powers wisely.”

Even is quiet again for a long moment. Isak doesn’t think he’s thinking about what he’s going to say. He probably knew that before they even started. No, he’s silent for a different reason. Isak can’t know for sure, but just the thought makes his heart beat faster anyway.

Even shifts a little in his seat, and he inhales. Isak can hear the sound of the air filling his lungs. He can almost feel it in his own rib cage, almost knows what it’s like to breathe deeply and easily, except his heart is tight in his chest, and that makes everything else inside his chest feel tight, too.

“Loser has to kiss the winner,” Even says.

And suddenly, Isak can’t breathe at all.

He looks over at Even, wordlessly. Even is looking back. Isak can hardly see what his face looks like, but he finds his eyes almost without thinking about it. They meet him steadily. They’re a quiet fire.

“Only if you want to,” Even adds. As if that needed to be said.

Isak wants so bad, he hardly knows anymore what it’s like _not_ to want.

(Then again, he’s not sure he ever did.)

And now there’s a little uncertainty in Even’s gaze, like he’s trying to figure out what Isak is going to do and he doesn’t know how. But he doesn’t look away. He does not look away.

Slowly, Isak stands from the swing. He takes a step forward. Then another.

And all the while, Even is looking at him. Burning. Waiting.

Isak comes to a stop when he’s standing between Even’s legs. Carefully, he wraps his hands around Even’s, where they’re still holding the straps of the swing. He brushes his thumb over the skin of Even’s knuckles, and they’re so close now he can hear the soft sound of Even’s breath catching in his throat, and Even is still fucking looking at him.

“Are you sure about this?” Isak says. It comes out of him like a whisper.

Even’s exhaled breath feels like a ghost against Isak’s cheekbones.

“No,” Even says.

“Me neither,” Isak says.

They look at each other for what feels like a long time. Like no time at all. Isak wishes he could take a photograph of Even’s face like this, shadows caressing his skin and eyes wide as planets. Looking at him like he’s been waiting for him his whole life.

But pictures could never do Even justice. They never have.

Isak bends down, and he kisses him.

It’s an awkward angle. He’s got his knees bent uncomfortably and some parts of his body are too close to Even’s and some parts are too far away. But Even tips his face back to meet him halfway, and his lips are warm and soft and welcoming, and they crack open under his mouth like a damn fault line. He could fall in if he let himself. And fuck, he wants to let himself. He wants to let himself feel everything.

His hands lift off of Even’s hands, and they curl around his jawline, and Isak pulls him closer, as close as they can be. He lets his fingers brush against Even’s skin, the curls of his hair. All the things he’s never let himself even imagine before, and now it’s all he’s capable of doing. Even’s breath tumbles into Isak’s mouth clumsily, and his hands lift too, his fingers digging into Isak’s waist like they’re clinging to life itself.

And he’s held this – this moment, this want, this dream – inside himself for so long that now that it’s out there, he almost thinks he should just burst open, his thoughts and feelings evaporating into the air. This should feel like so much. Too much, to have this when he’s gone his whole fucking life without it.

It should feel like too much. Instead, it feels like enough. Finally, it feels like enough.

(And really, it’s been here this whole time, hasn’t it?)

Gently, Isak pulls away, not because he wants to stop kissing Even but because right now he wants to look at him more. Even’s grinning, smiling so hard it almost looks painful. And Isak is smiling, too, because there is light in his chest and light in his thoughts and everywhere inside him is fucking sunlight, and Even is sunlight in the darkness, too.

“Want to go home?” Even says, breathlessly.

Isak doesn’t say, _Yes._ He doesn’t say, _No, because that’s where I already am._

Isak leans in and kisses Even again.

This time, no one asked him to.

 

**_end of part II_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i am, uh, much more behind than I would like to be, so again this fic is going on pause as I work on P3. I can’t make any promises as to how long it will be, but please be assured that no one is more invested in finishing this fic than I am. I greatly appreciate your patience and understanding. <3
> 
> -Both instances of NAS lyrics from this chapter are pulled from “[The Message](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1NAXIzeBMg)”.
> 
> -apologies for the entirely self indulgent plug for The Get Down, but also not sorry at all. If you haven’t watched it already, get on that shit.
> 
> -[a playlist for P2](https://open.spotify.com/user/strange-towns/playlist/0iYSpAPX5pUJlI83PgDBI5), if anyone is interested.
> 
> -and once again, endless thanks to everyone who’s stuck with me for this long. You’ve all been so kind and wonderful to me, and it means the world that you’ve taken the time to read my words. I hope you’ve enjoyed what I’ve written so far, and I hope you continue to enjoy what’s coming up!


	9. Part III - i loved you then (i love you now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is being together now?
> 
> Is it something to get used to again?
> 
> Or is it just something to miss when they’re apart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I wish I could promise more regular updates from here on out, but unfortunately this summer has found me much busier than I expected and also these chapters have apparently decided they wanted to be way longer than I originally planned. rip me. please bear with me; I anticipate it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
> 
> In other news, [sunnze](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnze/pseuds/sunnze) drew the most amazing art of chapter 8 and I’m still in utter awe of it. Please check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11014251)!! Also, the incomparable Crystal has made the [most lovely edits](https://pronouncingitwang.tumblr.com/post/161183376892/is-there-isak-says-someone-new-evens-smile) of this fic. All of my thanks to you, my friends <3
> 
> Finally, a brief note on what to expect from here on out - P3 will consist of four chapters with alternating POVs, followed by an epilogue. I hope you enjoy what’s coming up as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it! ^^

**III. i loved you then (i love you now)**

 

_i._

In the end, they go back to Isak’s place.

Riding his bike home as fast as he can is the best workout Even’s had in a while. His lungs are burning with the exertion and he’s pretty sure his calves have never cramped like this before, but fuck, it’s worth it, it is so goddamn worth it. Isak’s hands on his hips, fingers digging into his waist and heat of his palms searing tantalizingly through the thin fabric of Even’s shirt, is all the reminder of that he needs.

Everything about Isak right now, honestly, is worth all the pain in the world. His face is pressed into Even’s neck, nose nudging against the bones of his spine, and his chest is pressed against Even’s back, warm and omnipresent, and his breaths shudder against Even’s skin insistently, anticipation coiling in Even’s gut just at the sheer feeling of it.

And everything inside Even is singing; everything inside him is an endless symphony. Except he wants to know how it ends. He wants to know so badly his whole chest burns with it.

Then again, that could easily just be the aerobic exercise. Trying to ride a bicycle as fast as humanly possible when you have to deal with the weight of two gangly ass teenagers on it is no fucking joke.

When they finally skid to a halt in front of the complex, Isak stumbles off the bike, almost falling over in his eagerness. Even bursts out laughing, and he figures maybe he should feel bad about it, but honestly, what even is the point if he can’t laugh at Isak whenever he does something endearingly stupid?

“Yeah, yeah,” Isak mutters. Before Even can answer Isak comes around and leans forward to kiss him, hands covering his on the handlebars. The laughter in Even’s lungs melts into a long, slow exhale. God, this is just everything, isn’t it? The warmth and the softness of Isak’s mouth, his fingers squeezing tightly around Even’s. The way Isak kisses him, all clumsy and messy and painfully desperate, like he wants this more than anything. Like he doesn’t know if he’ll have it after this.

Isak kisses him like the world is going to end.

And Even kisses him back so he knows that it won’t.

They break away for long enough to breathe, foreheads still touching and noses brushing softly against each other. Isak’s eyes drink him in, half-lidded staring like he’ll disappear if Isak looks away. Even wants to say he’s not going anywhere, not this time, _fuck_ , not this time. He’s not sure Isak would believe him, but he should. There is honest to god nowhere on this fucking planet Even would rather be.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get tired of this,” Isak says. His voice is so soft, so full of hope and fear, Even’s heart almost wants to shatter into a million pieces at the sound of it.

But it doesn’t. There’s no way it could, not when everything else feels like this. Like - like, fuck, he doesn’t even have the words to describe what this feels like. It’s all warm and buoyant and tingly in his chest, sparks up and down his veins. Fireworks in his heart. Stillness in his thoughts.

Even leans forward and catches Isak’s lips with his own. Gentle, this time, as gentle as he can make it. Slow. Achingly slow. He pulls away, and Isak’s breath stutters beautifully against his mouth.

“Me neither,” Even says.

The smile that spreads across Isak’s face, warmer than the sun itself, is beautiful, too.

“Come on,” Isak says. Even leaves the bike in a heap outside the door as Isak drags him by the hand into the flat. They have to tip toe past Eskild’s door – “I'd never hear the fucking end of it,” Isak whispers, and doesn't explain what he means by “it”; Even squeezes his fingers in response so he knows he doesn't have to – but soon they're back in Isak's room and Isak is kicking the door shut and he's going over to the bed and he’s falling onto it, and Even falls with him.

There's something about the darkness and the silence that makes this feel more real, all of a sudden. Things on the playground felt like a heady, breathtaking dream, but things here feel almost urgently immediate. Isak straddles Even’s hips with his knees and crushes their mouths together, and now they're even closer than they were before. Even’s hands wrap around Isak’s back, pulling him closer, closer, and fingers tangle in Even’s hair, and Isak sighs against his lips, trembling. Isak kisses him like he's breathing, over and over and over again, pulling each exhale out of Even’s lungs like a revelation, and Even almost forgets that he has ever existed before this moment, that anyone else exists outside of it. Right now there's him and Isak and the dark heated silence and that's it. That's all that matters.

Then his hands slip under the fabric of Isak’s shirt, and Isak pulls back, so quickly it's almost as if he acted on a reflex. It's not so dark they can't see each other, so Even sees the wideness of Isak’s eyes and the way his lips are parted, and he hears the rhythm of Isak’s breathing, fast and hard, and he feels the sudden uncertainty between them, sharp and cold in his chest.

“Are you okay?” Even says, swallowing. “Is this okay?”

A moment is more than enough time for him to half convince himself Isak is going to say no, and of course if Isak asked him to he'd leave in a damn heartbeat but after everything that's happened tonight, these last few weeks, this last _forever_ , really, he's almost certain that would be the last fucking thing he'd be able to -

Isak nods. He doesn't look away, so it's not a lie.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, barely a whisper. “But can I - “

He breaks off suddenly, closing his eyes. Overwhelmed, Even thinks. He can't blame him. He feels the same exact way.

“Hey,” Even says. “I'm here. I'm right here.”

Isak lets out a shaky exhale. His fingers dig into Even’s skin.

“Can we just kiss?” Isak says. The uncertainty in his voice makes Even’s heart twist in his chest. “I don't know if this - if I - “

Even brings his hand up and cups Isak’s jaw with his fingers. Isak leans into his touch, skin of his cheek nudging against Even’s palm. His breath steadies. Even’s heart grows ten times bigger.

“Yes,” Even whispers. “We can.”

It's enough to tease a smile out of Isak, tentative and small at the corner of his mouth but real, heartstoppingly real. Even can't help it, can't do anything but let himself drink it all in. Four years later, he still thinks Isak’s smiles could save the world.

Isak leans in and kisses him again, soft and warm in the dark. Even lets the feeling of it fill up his entire heart.

-

It’s not the first morning he’s woken up next to his best friend.

Whenever they shared the same bed, by the time they woke up in the morning Even somehow always ended up with the whole duvet, but Isak would always have a stronghold on the pillows. Isak used to complain about it every time - “Even, _why_ , my toes are gonna fall off they’re so cold” - and Even never had a good comeback because yeah, he’d take the duvet over a million pillows any day. All he did was laugh. Laugh and laugh, because he used to think Isak pretending to be angry was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen, and he knew even back then he’d rather have this, faux anger or not, over most things.

When he wakes up now, they’re both still under the covers. A small miracle. Isak’s chest is pressed against his back, one arm slung carelessly around his middle. That’s more than a miracle. There isn’t a word that encompasses all that Even thinks that is.

He’d still rather have this more than anything in the whole world.

And no, it’s certainly not the first morning he’s woken up next to his best friend, but he’s still head-to-toes giddy with the feeling of it.

He turns a little so that he faces Isak, half-afraid he might jostle him awake. From the sound of his soft snoring, though - which, for the record, is ridiculously adorable; is there anything this boy does that isn’t adorable? - he’s still sound asleep. He looks almost uncharacteristically peaceful like this, shoulders rising and falling steadily, forehead unplagued by the near-perpetual grumpiness that wrinkles it when he’s awake. Even reaches out on an impulse, traces the line of his eyebrows with the pad of his thumb. He can do that, now. He can let himself show just how much wonder he feels in Isak’s presence. How much joy.

He likes looking at Isak like this, all relaxed and smooth-faced. He likes Isak even more when he’s actually talking to him, of course, but this is nice, too. He almost never gets to see him like this during the day.

Why, though? He can’t help but wonder that. Isak was a grumpy boy when they were younger, too, always trying to close himself off from the world. The difference is that now he actually succeeds at it.

“What happened to you?” Even says, softly. “What happened while I was gone?”

Isak snores on.

Even sighs to himself. Carefully, he extricates himself from his arms and walks to the kitchen. At this time of day, he definitely needs coffee. It might be considered rude to mooch off Isak’s supplies without asking, but then again, Even’s pretty sure they’re past the point where rudeness would be enough to ruin their relationship.

After all, it’s apparently survived a kiss.

More than one kiss.

A lot of kisses, actually.

He’d like to think he’s past being reduced to a blushing mess over the mere idea of someone kissing him, but the lightness in his head and heart, so much of it he’s half-convinced he could actually fly, really begs to differ. If he lets himself so much as smile about it, he’ll probably burst right open.

But what if he let himself? What if he let the whole world know how amazing it feels to kiss a boy you like and for him to _actually kiss you back_? He always thought the whole schoolyard crush schtick was kind of cliched - like why would you lose your shit over something like that? It’s just a kiss, big freaking deal, he’s certainly done much more than that over the course of his life - but god, he gets it now. He really does.

Then again, that thought isn’t entirely fair to Isak. Isak is more than a cute boy Even likes, though he certainly is that, too. The cutest boy in the world. But “cute boy I like” makes it sound simple. Makes it sound like Isak is just some guy, and Isak isn’t someone Even’s seen around a couple times and decided to pine for from afar. He’s not a stranger. He’s not just a person that Even likes, either. Isak is...

Is...

He’s -

“Oh, good morning!”

Even blinks. One of Isak’s roommates is in the kitchen already. Eskild. He’s smiling at Even, if somewhat quizzically, which, fair. If some random guy he’d only met a couple times traipsed into his kitchen with no explanation at eight in the morning, Even would be a little concerned, too.

“Good morning,” Even answers with a smile of his own. Not that that’s difficult to muster up right now.

“Didn’t realize we had an overnight guest,” Eskild says. He gives him an appraising look. “Isak’s, I’m guessing?”

Even lets out a laugh. “Who else’s?”

“Yeah, okay, childhood best friend and all, I get it.” Eskild waves his hand dismissively. “So you guys had a sleepover. That’s cute.”

Briefly, Even thinks of Isak’s fingers in his hair last night, the way they trailed down to his neck, his shoulders, the way they held his face like he was holding the world in his hands. Isak’s lips on his collarbone, the pulse of his neck, the lobe of his ear. Isak’s lips against his.

Even clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Just like old times.”

Eskild raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t press, though the curious look on his face indicates he wants to.

“Well, anyway,” Eskild says. “Would you like some coffee?”

“That’d be fantastic,” Even says, trying not to sound too relieved. Probably best not to mention he was fully intending on stealing the coffee just a few minutes ago.

“How do you like it? Cream, sugar?”

“Nah, I like mine black,” Even says. “Like my soul, Isak always used to say.”

Eskild snorts as he hands over the freshly poured cup. “Always a ray of sunshine, that kid.”

Even brings his cup up to his lips in a probably poor attempt to mask his expression. He’s pretty much given up trying to control what his face is doing at this point. “Yeah.”

Eskild shoots him another strange look. He doesn’t say anything, though, just drinks his own coffee.

“So how’d you two meet, by the way?” Even says. Not that he’d mind putting himself in an incriminating position when it comes to his feelings for Isak, but he suspects Isak himself would rather him not if he had the choice. So for Isak’s sake, Even will change the subject. “Like, were you friends before you decided to be roommates, or…?”

“Mm. He hasn’t told you?”

“No,” Even says. He’s been kind of curious about it for a while, how Isak ended up living miles away from home and his sick mother. He knew things were bad - hell, they were already that way before he even left - but for him to just _leave_? Even still has no idea what could have possibly happened. Which is fine. He figures Isak will tell him what’s going on with his family when he’s ready, but his relationship with Eskild seems like safe enough ground to broach with someone else. It’s clear they care a lot about each other, despite all the verbal sparring.

Eskild nods, considering. “I think I’ll let him tell you that story,” he says. “Although I will say, it involves a gay bar and a _stunning_ amount of alcohol.”

Whatever Even was expecting, that certainly wasn’t it. He lets out a delighted laugh. “No shit!”

“No shit,” Eskild says, smiling. “The boy’s been through a lot.”

Something inside Even’s heart twinges painfully, despite the lightheartedness of the comment. He can’t even imagine what must lie behind it. There are four whole years of a lot Even’s missed out on.

“Although,” Eskild says, and here his gaze slides back to Even slyly, “it seems like things have been looking up for him, recently.”

Even swallows down another mouthful of coffee. “Really, now.”

“Yeah!” Eskild says. “He’s been smiling a lot more often. At me, even! Can you believe it?”

Even smiles. “Hardly.”

“Well, he definitely has,” Eskild says. “Especially when you’re around.”

The way he’s looking at Even now seems careful, as if gauging his reaction. The guy definitely knows more than he’s letting on. Even can’t even be mad about it, though. It’s pretty difficult not to be the most obvious person on the planet when he actually kind of wants to be.

“I’m glad,” Even says. He could say more, so much more about how he feels to hear a sentence like that. Then again, what words could possibly be enough?

Eskild nods. “Me too,” he says. He’s smiling, now, gently, like he gets what Even means. That puts Even at ease, honestly. Anyone who can understand just what it means for Isak to be smiling more is a person he can trust, as far as he’s concerned.

Eskild stretches his arms above his head, then, and groans loudly.

“Well, I’ve got things to do now,” he says. “But help yourself to the kitchen, yeah? Any guest of Isak’s is a guest of mine, and all that.”

After Eskild leaves, Even figures he might as well leave, too. He walks back to Isak’s room. Turns out Isak’s awake already, though judging from the way he’s rubbing at his eyes, probably not for very long.

“Hey,” Even says as he slides back into bed.

“Hey,” Isak says back, and okay, Even can see what Eskild means from the way Isak’s face just melts into the softest smile. It makes Even’s heart skip a beat to see that happen, and he can’t help it, he has to lean in and kiss Isak, he just has to.

When he pulls away, Isak is still smiling. “Are you going to be doing that a lot?” he says.

“If you’ll let me,” Even says seriously, “then yes, I’d very much like to do that a lot.”

Isak’s smile widens. It’s breathtaking, how goddamn real it is.

“I’ll let you,” Isak says.

And Even has to kiss him for that, too. He just has to.

After some time, Even pulls away and lets his head drop onto the pillow. Isak’s looking at him, eyes half-closed in sleepy contentment, and his fingers are at the nape of Even’s neck, tangled in his hair. He has to wonder about that. They haven’t touched nearly this much in the past few weeks, but now it seems to be all either of them can do. He hopes Isak is okay with that. He hopes Isak thinks this feels as natural as he does.

From the look in Isak’s eyes now, it doesn’t seem like Even has anything to worry about. Though you can never know for sure when you haven't actually talked about it.

“Is it weird that I don’t find this weird?” Isak says.

Well, geez. Talk about Isak using his words against him.

“Find what weird?” Even says. “The fact that you’re actually up before ten in the morning and you’re not even mad about it? That’s the weirdest thing I’ve experienced all week.”

Isak snorts. “No, asshole,” he says. “I meant this. Just… everything.”

“The whole universe?” Even asks, just to be a little shit.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Isak says. His gaze flickers down, eyelashes brushing his cheekbones. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

Even brings his hand up, cradles Isak’s ear with his fingers and lets his thumb rest on his cheek. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe I want to hear you say it. Do you want to say it?”

Isak looks up, at that, and meets Even’s gaze hesitantly. He licks his lips.

“Is it weird that I don’t think being with you is weird?” he says.

Whatever Even imagined did not in any way prepare him for what it would actually feel like to hear Isak say those words out loud. _Being with you_. It’s such a simple phrase, but to Even, it means absolutely everything.

“I don’t know,” Even says lightly, even as his heart is having something akin to a nuclear meltdown in his chest. “I think you’ve got a lot of experience with being with me.”

“Well, yeah, but that was back then,” Isak says.

“Is there much of a difference now?” Even says.

Isak is silent, for a moment.

“No,” he says. “I guess there’s not. Except...”

He tilts his face forward and brushes his lips against Even’s. When he pulls away, he’s smiling again, gently, and if Even’s heart felt like it was exploding before, now it just feels like it’s falling, falling, falling.

He’s missed this more than he can say. Not the kisses, because he didn’t have those to miss. But just _being_ here. Being next to Isak. Even’s missed spending his mornings with him. Even when they didn’t wake up next to each other, they still spent most of them together. Back then, being together was the most certain inevitability of Even’s life.

He supposes it’s not an inevitability anymore. Which must mean it’s something else. What is being together now?

Is it something to get used to again?

Or is it just something to miss when they’re apart?

“Your breath reeks,” Isak says.

Even lifts his eyebrows. “Does it really?”

“Yeah,” Isak says, wrinkling his nose. “Stinks like coffee.”

Even laughs. “Excuse me, but your breath definitely smells worse.”

“Does not,” Isak says defensively. “I have the best morning breath in the world.”

“That’s really not something to be proud of,” Even says.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t feel,” Isak says, but he’s still smiling, smiling so hard there’s no way he can even pretend he’s actually indignant about this.

And Even’s grinning too, because there’s hardly anything that makes him happier than the way Isak looks when he smiles.

“Sorry,” Even says. He leans forward and lets his lips graze across Isak’s cheek, mostly because now, he actually can.

Isak leans his head forward too, his nose skimming against Even’s.

“Are you really?” he says, a soft accusation.

Even shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Not in the slightest.”

He could never be, not about this. Not ever.

-

It’s late when they finally decide to get out of bed, but Even still decides to make breakfast. It’s been a while since the last time he made Isak eggs, and Eskild said he could help himself to anything in the kitchen, didn’t he? As Even cracks eggs into the pan, Isak leans against the countertop, hands tucked into his pockets. He hasn’t showered yet, which means his hair is an endearing mess of a halo around his head. Even would run his hands through it with abandon if he wasn’t already occupied with the food.

“Are you still obsessed with sour cream as an ingredient?” Isak says.

“Uh, yes?” Even says. “One of my best kept kitchen secrets?”

Isak rolls his eyes. There it is. Even’s kind of missed that too, actually. It’s been a long while since the last time he kept count.

“You don’t have any kitchen secrets,” Isak says. “You’re just a nerd who thinks he can cook better than he actually can.”

Even shrugs. “At least I can cook.”

“What makes you think I haven’t learned?”

“You’re you,” Even says.

“Wow, and what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?” Even says, raising his eyebrows.

“That you’re a huge ass,” Isak says.

“Maybe so,” Even says. “Here, try this.” He offers the spatula with an offering of eggs to Isak. That, predictably, shuts him up. His eyes widen as he swallows the food. Nice. Even’s still got it. He gives himself an imaginary pat on the back. “And you questioned my sour cream usage,” he says, shaking his head.

“I question a lot of things about you,” Isak says.

His tone is light, and maybe most other people would just take it at face value and answer it with the laugh Isak’s probably expecting, but Even knows him. He knows when he’s trying to pass something serious off as a joke. He twists around, finding Isak’s gaze with his own. And yeah, there it is, that small, weak smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. For a moment, he almost expects Isak to look away, but he doesn’t.

“Like what?” Even says.

Isak’s smile fades away, and just like that, Even almost regrets saying anything at all. Shouldn’t he have learned his lesson by now? Shouldn’t he know how to be careful around Isak, how not to hurt him with the first thing that pops into his head? After four years of learning how to be cautious with the idea of Isak, it should be the easiest fucking thing he’s ever done.

Then again, that’s four years he’s had to unlearn everything he once knew about how to be careful with Isak himself.

“Like,” Isak says, “like for a second after I woke up, I thought - ”

He breaks off with a sigh. Even feels it in his chest, the sharpness of it.

“What did you think?” Even says, anxious to hear the answer, afraid of it at the same time.

“Never mind,” Isak says, roughly. “It’s not important.”

That’s another thing four years made Even forget - how small Isak thinks he is, or at least how small he thinks the things he feels are. How insignificant. Even never understood why he thought that way, just knew he thought it was the most unfair thing in the world. He still does.

“Everything you think is important to me, Isak,” Even says.

The space between them in this kitchen isn’t enough to mask the way Isak’s breath stumbles over itself, at that.

A moment of silence passes. Another.

Isak takes in a deep breath. Even watches his shoulders rise and fall.

“For a second after I woke up, I thought you’d left already,” Isak says. He looks down at the ground. Like he’s embarrassed to admit something like that out loud. Like he feels stupid for it.

“I wanted coffee,” Even says, ignoring the way his heart clenches in his chest.

That statement seems to be enough to startle a snort out of Isak. Even feels the relief that floods his lungs like a rush.

“Of course you did,” Isak says, fondly exasperated. The way he always used to sound around Even.

Even puts down the spatula. He walks across the kitchen, bridging the gap between them with a few steps. He takes Isak’s face carefully in his hands and tilts it up. Isak’s eyes flicker up to meet his gaze, tentative. Even leans in and kisses him, as gently as he can. He hopes to god Isak knows that he means every word that he says and every kiss he gives him. He means it more than anything.

“I told you, okay?” Even says against his lips. “I’m right here.”

Isak pulls away. The look in his eyes makes something inside Even’s heart crack, just a little.

“Yeah, but…” Isak exhales. “You weren’t always.”

Even’s breath feels stuck in his lungs. It’s totally fair for Isak to say something like that. It’s more than fair, and Even can’t blame him in the slightest. But fuck, it _kills_ him to see the proof, right in front of his eyes, of what he did to Isak. His worst fears confirmed with just one sentence. If he hadn’t left - or if he’d tried harder to hold on, just a little harder, during the time between then and now - would Isak find it easier to let him in?

Would it have even made a difference?

“Fuck. I didn’t mean to - “ Isak buries his face in Even’s shoulder. “I guess I’m just… trying to get used to you again.”

Even swallows past the tightness in his throat. He wraps an arm around Isak, letting his fingers tangle in his hair as he presses him closer. “Me too.”

That seems to give Isak some pause. “Really?”

“What do you mean, really?” Even says. “Why’s that such a surprise?”

“I don’t know, you’re just, just always so sure of things. And I’m - I’m not.”

It’s almost laughable how completely ass backwards Isak has it.

“Isak,” Even says, “can I tell you something?”

Isak leans his head back and raises his eyebrows.

“Four years ago,” Even says, “you were this gangly, awkward mess of a kid.”

“Wow,” Isak says dryly. Good to know that even during times like these, he’s still capable of being a sarcastic shit. “Thanks.”

“But you had all these strong opinions about everything,” Even presses on. “And if you thought something was important, really and truly important, you wouldn’t give it up, not for anything. I really looked up to you for that. And you know what? I still do.”

Isak is silent, now. Eyes wide, almost in disbelief. But why shouldn’t he believe him? This is the most honest Even’s ever let himself be.

“I still do,” he says, “because that’s still the way you are. And that’s - that’s just awesome to me, Isak. I’m in awe of you every time I see you.”

Isak’s eyes widen more. Even hopes he gets it, though. He hopes Isak can understand why he feels the need to say this. It feels like he’s spent so long holding all these things inside himself, even though he’s really only put a name to them a couple of weeks ago. He’s spent so long not saying these things mostly because he didn’t know if Isak wanted to hear them. But is there a need anymore to hide how he really feels about Isak Valtersen?

The answer to that question, as far as he’s concerned, is a resounding no.

“Also,” Even adds, “it helps that you got hot.”

“Oh, my god.” Isak hides his face in Even’s shoulder again. Even would bet almost anything he’s blushing.

“I’m serious,” Even says, grinning. “Puberty really did some wonders for you, holy fuck.”

Isak’s shaking with laughter. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”

Even grins wider. “But am I wrong?”

When Isak lifts his head up, he’s smiling too, and it’s the most beautiful thing Even’s ever seen. It always was.

“I don’t know,” Isak says. “But you, too. Fuck, you too.”

This time when they kiss, it’s hard to say who leaned in first. Even’s arm tightens around Isak, and Isak’s hand flies up to cup Even’s cheek, and Isak was so right last night; Even could never, ever get tired of this.

That’s when Even’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

And that’s when he remembers he forgot to tell his parents he was going to be out for the night.

“Fuck,” Even says as he breaks away from Isak. He pulls out his phone, scrolls through the notifications. Yup. Two missed calls, five new messages. Christ on a bike.

“Is everything okay?” Isak says, frowning.

“I think my mom is, uh,” Even says. “Slightly concerned, probably.”

Isak’s expression of concern melts into exasperation. “You forgot to tell her where you were, didn’t you.”

“Uh,” Even says. “Maybe?”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Isak says, rolling his eyes. Kisses aren't enough to dissuade Isak’s lack of tolerance for his bullshit, apparently.

“Probably,” Even says.

“Seriously,” Isak says, grabbing hold of Even’s neck, “what kind of son just ditches his parents’ own dinner party thing without _telling_ them? Shame on you.”

“Shame on me,” Even agrees, watching the way Isak’s eyes flicker down to his lips.

“Shame,” Isak says, right before he kisses him.

It would be way too easy to let himself live in this moment for a while. Isak’s kisses are already rapidly ascending the ranks of things he would rather do than actually be a responsible human being, which would include but is not limited to calling his mom back and leaving Isak’s flat before the day gets too old. But he _is_ a responsible human being, or at least he has to try at some point, and besides, there’s something Isak said that Even feels the sudden need to talk about.

“Friend?” he says when they pull away.

Isak blinks at him. “What?”

“Are we still friends?” Even says.

It’s a bit of an unfair question, he knows, considering he hardly knows the answer himself. But he’s been wondering about it for a while now. First of all, he kind of hates the idea of ruining their friendship again so soon after they finally got each other back, and not being able to keep it in his pants is one of the stupider but frighteningly possible reasons for ruining things he can think of. Also, after two people have kissed each other with the frequency that they have, it just seems like a fair thing to want to know if the kissing is going to change anything, or even if they want it to.

Isak swallows.

“Do you want to be?” he says.

An unfair question for an unfair question. Well fucking played, Isak Valtersen.

Before Even can think of an answer, though, his phone buzzes again. He glances down at the screen. Predictably, it’s from his mom, so that’s not what makes him stop in his tracks. It’s the text itself that sends a chill running down his spine.

_Did you at least make it to your therapy appointment this morning?_

“Jesus christ, I am so fucked,” Even says.

“What is it?” Isak asks, mildly alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Even switches his phone off so Isak can’t see the message. He lets out a long, frustrated sigh. Mostly at himself. But a little at the world, too, for reminding him that things can’t always be as easy as they are with Isak.

“I just - ” Even glances back at Isak, feeling a little helpless. “I wish I could stay here forever.”

The corner of Isak’s worried mouth twitches up into an understanding smile. He leans forward until their foreheads touch.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

-

Before Even leaves, he turns back toward Isak. “Do you want to hang out Monday?” he says. “Mom will probably want me home this weekend, but…”

Isak gives him an appraising look. “Is this a date?” he says. “Is that what’s happening right now?”

Even quirks an eyebrow. “Do you want it to be?”

“Wow,” Isak says. “Now, that’s just unfair.”

Even steps forward and takes Isak’s hands in his. Isak doesn’t pull away.

“Well?” Even says, letting his eyes trail down Isak’s face to his mouth.

Isak’s throat works as he swallows.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s hang out on Monday.”

This time when they kiss, it feels like a promise Even actually believes he can keep.

-

Even’s mom is waiting for him in the kitchen when he gets back home.

As a rule of thumb, his mom doesn’t get mad at him. She’s one of the most understanding, supportive people in his life right now, actually, and god knows he’s needed her understanding and support after the clusterfuck his life has been for the last six months. But he did leave home with Isak last night without remembering to tell her he wouldn’t be back, and considering the still-delicate circumstances he can’t begrudge her if she’s going to get mad at him for that.

And, oh yeah, there’s the therapy thing, too.

Fuck, she’s going to be so pissed.

He enters the kitchen with what he feels is a justifiable amount of trepidation. She doesn’t turn around, though she can almost certainly hear his approach. He’s not exactly the most subtle person in the world.

“Have you had breakfast yet?” she says, voice mild.

“Yeah,” Even says carefully.

“Well, you should at least have some coffee.”

The woman knows him too well. He walks over to the counter and pours himself a cup. It tastes like his favorite brew, too. He’s really not going to leave this conversation unscathed, is he?

“Before you say anything,” Even says, “Isak is the most responsible person I know and there’s no way I could get into trouble with him.”

“Okay,” she says, like the brick fucking wall she is.

“And we weren’t even out for that long.”

“Uh huh.”

“And the only reason why I missed therapy this morning is because I didn’t have money for the tram?”

It’s now that she chooses to look over at him. “Even.”

Well. It was worth a shot, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as sincerely as he can. “I should have called.”

“Yes, you should have.” His mom runs a hand through her hair. “I’m not mad at you, by the way, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Even’s gut twists. “Really?”

“Of course not.” She smiles gently at him. On anyone else, it would probably come across as patronizing, but on her, it reads as genuine concern. Somehow, that just makes him feel worse. “You’re old enough to make your own decisions now. And I know Isak is much more interesting company than I or your father.”

Even has to laugh at that. No offense to his parents, he loves them with all his heart, but yeah, he’d probably take making out with his best friend than hanging out with them on any given day.

“I’m just - ” she sighs. “You know me, I worry. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t worry?”

“Moms do seem pretty prone to worrying, as a general rule,” Even muses.

“I’m serious, Even,” she says. “After everything that’s happened... I just want to know that you’re okay.”

And there it is, the exact sentence Even had been dreading. Because there’s nothing he loves more than being reminded how much grief he causes everyone else in his life just by being the way that he is. Impulsive as hell. Prone to making poor decisions. Utterly fucking self-absorbed.

A burden.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

“Good,” she says. “I just want you to feel comfortable coming to me, okay? If anything is wrong.”

Even knows exactly why she’d feel the need to make a statement like that. He knows far too well.

He places his empty mug into the sink. “Yeah, of course,” he says, the words fighting their way past the sudden lump in his throat. “Thanks, mom.”

She rubs at his back soothingly, as if making him his favorite coffee and not getting mad at him weren’t enough to qualify as good mothering skills. She should get some kind of award or something.

“Oh, I should mention before I forget,” she says. “Sonja called.”

“Wow, great,” Even says. Just what he needed this morning. And it was off to such a promising start, too.

The expression on his mom’s face softens. “You should call her back. I know things are rough between the two of you, but she could use a friend right now.”

Even smiles weakly at her. “We’re better off as friends, aren’t we?”

She pats him on the arm. “Even, only you know the answer to that question.”

-

He puts off the call to Sonja longer than he probably should. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to her, necessarily. He meant it when he said they were still friends. But even if things have been pretty rough between them for the last several months, they still dated for a significant portion of his life. It still wasn’t an easy decision to end it. Still wasn’t an easy thing to see the way her face, grainy and pixelated in the Skype window, went cold and blank when he said the words. The idea of talking to her now, when they’ve barely had any time to get used to their lives without each other, does not seem like one of his better ones.

Why _does_ she want to talk to him? She’s probably just used to checking up on him. Old habits die hard, after all. He would know.

It’s probably better to get it over with sooner rather than later, though, so Sunday night, he curls up in bed and cradles the phone to his ear and prepares himself for what could potentially be a very long night.

Sonja picks up on the first ring, reliable as always. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Even says. “Mom said you called.”

“I did,” she says. She sounds like she’s trying to be careful, like she thinks that if she’s not she’s going to set him off. She’s sounded that way a lot recently.

“I told you I needed some distance,” he says. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets it. He couldn’t sound more like an asshole if he tried.

Though if it bothers her, she doesn’t let on. She just sighs. “I know. I guess I just wanted to make sure that you were doing okay.”

While he should probably be grateful that she still cares about him enough to want to do something like that, he finds that he doesn’t. Mostly, he just feels vaguely guilty.

“It’s only been a few days, Sonja,” he says, because apparently he has no idea how to stop sounding like an asshole. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I know. But I heard from your mom you missed therapy, and considering the last time we - ”

Even lets out a sharp exhale. “God, Sonja, this is exactly what I meant.”

“Oh,” she says, quietly.

Fuck. This is terrible, and the main reason why Even doesn’t want to talk to her right now. He can’t seem to go one sentence without causing her unnecessary pain. He’s not trying to be like that, but that’s the thing. He’s not even trying.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she says. She lets out a weak laugh. “I’m already fucking this up, aren’t I?”

He cracks a smile, despite himself. “Not like I’m making it easy for you. Not like I ever did.”

“Don’t say that,” she says. “You know I didn’t date you expecting things would be easy.”

“Yeah?” he says. “So why did you date me, then?”

It’s kind of a stupidly pointless question, considering he already knows the answer. She humors him anyway.

“I dated you because you were the only kid at school who was as much of a friendless loser as I was,” she says.

He snorts out a laugh. Yeah, that’s true enough. She’d moved to Stavanger from Oslo before he did, but not by much.

“You weren’t _that_ cute back then, but you were pretty cute,” she continues, clearly on a roll now. “And you were an idiot, but who isn’t when they’re fifteen? Fifteen year old me was also an idiot, because fifteen year old me thought all your stupid shenanigans were just charming as hell. Until after we started dating, when I learned the truth.”

“And what was the truth?”

“That you’re not charming at all,” she says frankly. “You’re just a huge dork.”

“Geez,” he says. “Why’d you stay, then? If I’m so dumb?”

He means it as a joke, but she doesn’t laugh.

“I stayed because I loved you,” she says.

Some might say that was a stupid decision, on her part. Even might be inclined to agree. Why would you stay for someone who doesn’t know what it’s like not to leave people behind?

“Loved,” he says.

“Well,” she says. He can just picture the wistful smile on her face. “You too, right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry.” Seems like that’s all he can think to say to her, these days.

“Don’t be,” she says. “It wasn’t either of our faults. These last six months have just been...”

“Depressing as fuck?” he says.

She sighs again. At least this time she doesn’t tell him not to be ‘like that’. It used to be one of her favorite things to say to him. “How _are_ you doing, though? I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t ask you that, right?”

“You’d be a shitty friend regardless,” he says. “I mean, you called me stupid about two seconds ago.”

“Ha, ha. No, but really. That Isak kid, huh? Any luck with him?”

“Wow,” he says. Straight to the point, as she always is. “For someone who’s supposed to be my friend, you’re weirdly curious about my love life.”

“Hey, I need to make sure your new boy’s treating you right, okay? You don’t have anyone else in your life who can give him the shovel talk, your parents are too nice.”

He has to laugh at that. As if Isak needs a shovel talk. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Maybe I will, at that.”

“And I told you,” he says. “He’s not new. Not really.”

She doesn’t say anything, for a moment. He wonders if she finds the idea of him going after his childhood best friend days after they broke up - though, to be fair, he thinks unofficially they’d broken apart long before that - to be strange. It’s certainly a strange thing to be talking to his ex about.

The concept itself should probably be strange, too. At the very least, some might say they’re moving too fast. He doesn’t think he agrees, though. As long as he and Isak are okay with the way things are going, what does anything else matter?

“But there is something there, then,” Sonja says.

“Yeah,” Even says. “There is.”

She doesn’t ask him to elaborate, which is unexpected, but nice. It’s nice that she gets that this - whatever it is - is serious, and doesn’t need to be questioned. Even if he and Isak decide tomorrow that it’s not going to work - though he sincerely hopes that doesn’t happen - it still _matters_.

“I hope it works out for you two, Even,” Sonja says. She sounds sincere about that, but that at least is no surprise. As much shit as he’s put her through, she’s always been almost unfairly understanding of it all. He doesn’t exactly feel guilty about it, but he doesn’t exactly not feel guilty about it, either.

“Thanks,” he says, a little lamely. He still doesn’t quite know how to react when someone is kind to him in a way he doesn’t deserve.

“He’s cute, too,” Sonja says. “I have to admit, when you first brought it up I was like, really? Because I only remembered what he looked like from when you first showed me pictures, those first few months after you moved here and you were still homesick for Oslo. But then I looked him up on Facebook the other day, and he’s not exactly my type, but you could definitely do worse.”

“I’m glad I have your approval,” Even says dryly.

“Not that you need it, but I’m certainly not going to complain,” she says. Maybe this should be strange, too, that his ex would say something like that about someone he’s currently having a thing with, but talking about boys isn’t actually something that’s new for them. When he first came out, they used to talk about cute boys all the time. And yeah, he did feel weird about it at the time, but it was also a huge relief that she didn’t judge him for it. At the time, there weren't many people he could talk to about attractive boys who could actually relate.

Times like these remind Even just how much Sonja’s really done for him over the years. And what has he done for her, in return?

Absolutely nothing worth her time.

Right, that’s yet another reason why they broke up. Because of thoughts like that.

“Yeah,” Even says. “Neither am I.”

Silence on the line, for a few seconds. Then, a small laugh.

“I haven’t heard you this happy in a long time,” she says.

The statement makes something like warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach, even as his heart twists in his chest. “I haven’t even said much about him,” Even says.

“No,” she says, “but you didn’t have to.”

He smiles at that. He can’t help it. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess you’re right.”

“I always am,” she says. She pauses. “So have you told him, then?”

If life was a movie, this would be the part where the record scratches and the music stops.

He’d been trying to ignore this. It figures Sonja wouldn’t let him.

“Told him what?” he says, pretending at ignorance, pretending his heart isn’t suddenly going a mile a minute in his chest.

“Oh my god,” she says. “You haven’t.”

He winces. “Sonja - ”

“Don’t _Sonja_ me,” she snaps. “This is serious.”

He exhales sharply. “Can we not talk about this right now? I really don’t think this is - ”

“Why haven’t you told him yet?” she says. He can practically feel the disapproval rolling off her voice.

“I don’t know,” he says, though that’s not entirely accurate. He knows why he hasn’t said anything. It’s just that the list of reasons is too long to tell anyone. A list he started writing years ago, and never stopped adding on to.

“Even, that’s not _fair_ to him. You can’t just - you have to tell him. You just have to.”

“Why, so he can see me as an invalid, like you?” Even says.

He’s not thinking when he says it, but as soon as it comes out he knows that he should have thought about it. How many times have they had this fight? He can’t even remember. Everything always comes back to this, it seems.

“Even,” Sonja says. “That’s really not fair.”

“Yeah.” He breathes out, hard. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“He’s your _best friend_ ,” Sonja says. “Surely, he of all people would get it. Shouldn’t that make things easier?”

“Sonja,” he says, “this has never, ever been easy.”

That seems to take her aback. She doesn’t say anything for a long while. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, and pretends his chest doesn’t hurt with the dullest of aches.

“I don’t have to tell anyone anything,” he says. “And you don’t have the right to decide that for me.”

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, I get it. And I agree. It’s your choice how to handle it.”

Even says nothing.

“I just hope you can make it one day,” she says.

It’s the first time the whole night she’s come close to sounding sad.

-

Technically, meeting Isak after school isn’t anything new, either. Hell, Even’s done it almost every day these past few weeks. He still feels jittery as fuck throughout the day. He can barely concentrate in his classes, leg bouncing up and down and pen twirling in his fingers and doodles littering the margins of his notes in abundance. But how can anyone blame him? How can he be blamed for wanting to see Isak again when it’s been a whole two days since the last time?

That’s all he wants, right now. To see Isak again.

After his last class lets out, he practically flies down the stairs to make it to Isak’s classroom before Isak gets out. It takes Even a bit to spot him among the crowd, but not that long. He’s wearing his red hat today, and it’s only been a few weeks since the first time Even saw him in it but there’s no way he could miss something that iconic. Even watches as the spot of color moves past everyone else, slowly making its way to where Even is.

Isak comes to a stop in front of him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling tentatively.

Even’s grin isn’t so careful. He has no scruples about the way his heart starts kicking in his chest at Isak’s approach. So he likes the way Isak makes him feel when they’re next to each other. Sue him.

“Hey,” he says back.

Isak’s hands squeeze around his backpack straps. “So, uh,” he says. “What do you want to do?”

It’s probably the most awkward Even’s seem him these past few weeks, and there’ve been some really stilted moments between them. He wants to reach out, wants to cup his face in his hands and tell him it’s going to be okay. But there’s still people around, and Isak is looking at them uncertainly, and surely Even can keep his hands to himself for the greater good of helping Isak feel more comfortable. Surely, he can do that much.

“I want to be a wizard,” Even says.

It’s a dumb thing to say, but it works. Isak smile turns a few degrees more genuine. “Really, now.”

“Yeah, but I think Hogwarts skipped over me on their mailing list,” Even says mournfully. “Guess I just have to settle for being a boring muggle.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “You’re not boring, Even.”

Isak has always had this incredible way of making even the sweetest of compliments sound disgruntled. Even smiles. “Wanna bet?”

“Bet on what?”

“How boring I can make today,” Even says, and he spins on his heels and walks away. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Isak will follow. After all, he always does.

-

“Are you actually planning on going home any time soon?” Isak says.

They’re sitting on the tram, but it’s a different line from their usual one. Even knocks his knee lightly against Isak’s. He almost feels fifteen years old again, mostly because that was the last time he had a serious crush on someone. The shyness, the fleeting touches in public loaded with significance, the urge to burst into helpless giggles every time they so much as made eye contact. He’d thought he was too old now for that kind of thing. If anyone could prove him wrong about anything, though, it would be Isak.

“Nah,” Even says. “We’re having an adventure, and no one can stop us.”

“I want to study,” Isak says.

Even gives him a long, lingering look. He leans in closer. “Do you really?” he says, quietly.

Isak stares back at him, wide-eyed. Even’s gut squirms in shameless delight. It really doesn’t take much to catch Isak off guard these days, does it?

After a long moment, he looks away and shoves at Even’s arm. “Stop that,” he mutters. “Asshole.”

Even grins. “Stop what?”

“You know what.”

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Even says. Surreptitiously, he presses himself even closer to Isak. Isak casts a startled glance in Even’s direction, but he doesn’t move away.

“Stop being so - so _you_ ,” Isak says, gesturing wildly with one hand.

Even bursts out laughing. “Such eloquence,” he says. “Such poeticism. I’m so moved.”

“Fuck _off_.”

Even takes this opportunity to cover Isak’s hand, resting in the space between them, with his own. There’s no one around them, and it’s an innocuous enough move that no one who saw would think it was more than a reassuring touch. Gently, Even lets his thumb graze over Isak’s knuckles. Isak’s breath quickens, just a little.

“Again,” Even says. “Do you actually want me to?”

Because he would, he doesn’t say. He would if Isak just said the word. Even if it was the hardest thing he’d ever have to do.

Isak doesn’t say it. He just shakes his head, and in his eyes, Even can see truth, just as clear as he can see uncertainty.

God, he wants to kiss Isak so badly. Wants to kiss the doubt right out of him. If only kissing him now wouldn’t make him doubt himself more.

“Well, good,” Even says. “Because I’m not actually sure I know how.”

The corner of Isak’s mouth twitches upward. He huffs out a laugh.

“You know what?” Isak says. “I’m actually kind of glad for it.”

If Even let himself read too much into that statement, he would probably actually explode.

His heart soars in his chest anyway.

-

They spend the afternoon wandering through the city, soaking in the afternoon sun and ducking into shops that look interesting. There’s a secondhand record store. A coffee shop where they buy each other drinks because they couldn’t decide who should pay. They even go into a grocery store at one point, walking through the aisles and cracking dumb jokes about the things on the shelves the way they used to.

Even tries to be mindful of the distance between them, mostly because if he lets his guard down too much he might do things that Isak isn’t comfortable with doing in public yet. He can’t stray too far, though. Isak’s presence pulls him close in a way he can’t resist. He can’t get enough of him, can’t get enough of the sound of Isak’s laugh, the way his hair curls under his hat, the corners of his eyes when his face crinkles with a smile. He can’t take his eyes off him.

And the amazing thing about it is, now he’s _allowed_ to feel that way. Now he knows that feeling isn’t pointless or unreciprocated. It’s not unreciprocated at all.

Because Isak knows that he feels these things, and he’s okay with it. He wants Even to be close to him, too. He wants Even to stay.

That kind of knowledge makes Even feel like the most powerful person in the whole fucking world.

When they get back to Isak’s place, they head straight for Isak’s room. They stare at each other for a moment as the door swings shut behind them, and then they’re surging forward, and then they’re kissing each other like they’re never going to stop. Even’s been on his best behavior all day, but frankly it’s been driving him up the wall not to kiss Isak whenever he wants to now that the option’s opened to him at all, and from the way Isak’s hands tangle roughly in his hair, he’d guess Isak feels the same.

Hanging out with him today was great. It’s amazing to talk to someone who knows him this well, to laugh at someone’s jokes because they’re genuinely funny rather than because he feels obligated to. It’s amazing to just be with him. Mentally, emotionally, no one gets him the way Isak does. But this - open-mouthed kisses and hands running over bodies and hearts beating faster and breaths coming out in hot gasps - is also great. Isak gets him on a physical level, too. Talking to him, being with him, kissing him, it all just -

Makes _sense_.

Even is immensely glad they’ve learned this about themselves. He doesn’t think he could trade it for the world, now that he actually knows what it’s like.

-

“You were so wrong,” Isak murmurs against his lips, later.

“About what?”

“You couldn’t have made today boring if you tried,” Isak says.

The grin that bursts out of Even is so big, it’s almost painful.

-

Of course, neither of them have the time or energy to just fuck around for the whole afternoon every day of the week, so the next day they just go back to Isak’s room after school. Even can count the number of times he’s been in there on one hand, but already it feels familiar to him. It’s not the space itself, not with its glossy posters of half-naked women and otherwise-bare walls and all the other reminders it contains of the parts of Isak’s life Even wasn’t there for. It’s the fact that it belongs to Isak. That’s what makes it feel so real. It doesn’t matter what he puts on his walls, doesn’t matter what he keeps on his bedside table. It’s still _his_.

Isak dumps his bag on the floor and jumps onto the bed. “Come here,” he says, flinging his arms out invitingly.

Even raises his eyebrows. “So needy,” he says, but he complies anyway because Isak is unfairly adorable in that hoodie of his, and Even isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s utterly weak to adorable things. His arm wraps around Isak’s shoulders instinctively as Isak rolls on top of him and rests his head on Even’s chest. They’ve only been doing this for a few days, and already moving together like this feels like the easiest thing in the world.

Isak reaches up and rests his hand against the side of Even’s face. “Do you blame me?” he says, voice soft and tender. Something inside Even’s heart melts, and he tilts his face down to bridge the gap between them. This kiss is soft and tender, too. It makes him feel warm inside. Makes him feel safe.

Even presses another kiss to Isak’s forehead when they break apart. “I guess I’d be a hypocrite if I did,” he says.

Isak hums tunelessly in response. His hand tangles in Even’s hair, pads of his fingertips skimming across his skull. The touch tingles pleasantly across his scalp. His heart shivers with the feeling of it.

“Nah, you can’t be a hypocrite,” Isak says. “You’re too honest.”

That gives Even some pause. He wishes he could just take the comment at face value, but considering - well, everything, he can’t.

If only Isak knew the kind of things he was capable of saying. If only he knew the kind of things he was capable of _not_ saying.

If they’re going by honesty, then Even is the biggest hypocrite he knows.

He looks down at Isak. “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” Isak says, matter-of-fact. “Even when you’re not saying anything, I can read you like a book.”

Even laughs, despite himself, and squeezes his arm tighter around Isak. “If you say so.”

Isak is silent for a moment. Even kind of expected him to at least smile in response, but he doesn’t. Sudden worry seizes Even’s heart, though he doesn’t even really know what it’s for.

“Actually, I don’t know that I do,” Isak says, looking up at him.

An acknowledgement, then, that after everything things still aren’t entirely certain between them. He’d known that they should probably put it out there so they can properly talk about it, but knowing that they should do it didn’t in any way prepare him for the inexplicable fear that actually hearing it fills him with. Apparently, talking to Isak is only easy when they’re not talking about things that matter.

Even meets Isak’s eyes with his own, not trusting himself to say anything, and silently urges him to go on.

Isak’s tongue swipes across his lips. He looks back down.

“When you first came back to Oslo, I thought you were a fucking mystery,” Isak says.

“How so?”

“I don’t know, it just… just seemed like I couldn’t figure you out.” Isak lets out a shaky laugh. “You were so confusing.”

Even supposes he only has himself to blame for that one.

“Am I still confusing?” he says quietly.

Isak’s eyes flicker back up to Even’s face.

“I don’t know,” Isak says.

Even’s heart aches to hear that more than it should. What right does it have to feel that way? If Isak doubts Even, he certainly has reason to.

But god, Even would kill to know what Isak means and why he thinks that way. Does he find Even confusing because of the time and space between them? Is he referring to his own feelings for Even? They went from ex-best friends to _this_ in the span of a few weeks. Even couldn’t blame him if he found that confusing, even if on a visceral level it feels like the right thing to do.

Or maybe he finds Even confusing because Even just doesn’t know how to be upfront anymore.

None of these possibilities are lines of thought he wants to pursue.

“Okay,” Even says. “Maybe I should clear some things up, then.”

“Like what?” Isak says.

“Like…”

Even runs his hand through Isak’s hair, brushing it out of his forehead so that he can press a kiss to the corner of Isak’s eye.

“Like, I like it when you smile,” Even says. “I really, really like it when you do that.”

He grazes his thumb over Isak’s eyebrow, the ridge of his nose, his cheekbone. Isak’s eyes flutter closed at the touch, and Even leans forward to kiss his forehead.

“And I like that I can do this, now, and it doesn’t feel weird,” Even says. “It just feels like something I’ve been meaning to do for a long time.”

He cradles Isak’s face with his hands. Isak scoots upward a little, maybe sensing what Even wants to do, and tilts his head back. His instincts were right. Even kisses him on the mouth, taking his time with it. Isak sighs softly against his lips, and deepens the kiss. If forever was even remotely possible, Even is sure this is what it would feel like.

They separate gently. Isak lets his head drop back to the crook of Even’s shoulder. The way he’s looking at Even now is so impossibly sweet Even’s heart swells hugely in his chest.

“And I like you,” Even says. The words almost hurt coming up because he believes in them so much. “I like you a lot.” Far, far more than words can say.

“Yeah?” Isak whispers. He almost sounds stunned to hear something like that, like it’s an utter shock anyone could like him as much as Even does. But it’s no surprise to Even at all. What’s surprising to Even is how Isak doesn’t see that he’s the easiest person to love Even has ever met.

“Yeah,” Even says back, softly. “I don’t know if I always have. I don’t know if I always will. I just know this.”

And that’s what matters most, right? That’s what matters more than anything.

Isak gives him a long look. “And you don’t think that’s weird?”

Even can’t help but smile at that. “You don’t think it’s weird, either,” he says.

“But you _want_ this.” The awe is so naked in Isak’s voice, Even’s chest actually aches. “You actually want this.”

“What does ‘this’ mean?” Even asks.

“I…” Isak exhales sharply. “I don’t know.”

Even nods. “Well, neither do I.”

Isak’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Again with the surprise,” Even says. “This is new to me, too.”

“You’ve been in a relationship before,” Isak points out.

“Yeah, but you’re the first best friend I’ve ever kissed,” Even says.

Isak seems struck speechless at that. He stares at Even, mouth hanging open slightly. And Even stares back, because there’s nothing he wants to look at more.

After a few moments, Isak shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” Isak says. “You just seem like the kind of person who knows things.”

Isak keeps on making all these assumptions about Even. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to live up to them.

“I don’t know everything,” Even says. “I’m not a god.”

“You wish you were,” Isak says.

Even remembers the conversation Isak is referencing. He should probably laugh. He doesn’t.

“Not anymore,” he says instead.

Isak goes quiet at that, too. But he doesn’t ask, and Even is glad for that. He’s not sure how to explain that if you asked him what superpower he’d want now, he’d answer with, _none of them, because all I want to be is a human being._ He’s not sure even Isak would understand if he gave him a sentence like that.

Even clears his throat. “But yeah,” he says. “I think we could figure ‘this’ out together, if you wanted.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t want to?” Isak says, frowning as if highly offended Even could ever suggest otherwise.

Even has to smile, at that. “I just wanted to make sure.”

It’s incredible how little time it takes for Isak’s expression to soften, after that.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I want to.”

And now Even can’t hold it back anymore. He has to kiss Isak again, has to hold him tightly in his arms and let himself soak in the sheer feeling of it. Isak shifts, and that’s all it takes for Even to roll on top of him, pressing Isak into the mattress with the weight of his body. Isak’s hands come up to his neck, pulling him in even closer. And Even lets him. God, he’d let Isak do just about anything to him.

After a while, he forces himself to break away. He’s breathing hard, they both are, and it actually pains him to put distance between them even if it’s only for a little while, but he has something to say, and he thinks Isak should hear it.

“I’m not as sure about things as you seem to think I am,” Even says.

Isak stares up at him, hands still cupped around his face. “No?”

Even shakes his head, swallowing. “But I am sure about one thing.”

“What’s that?” Isak whispers.

Even bends down. Presses kisses to Isak’s neck, his cheek, the space between his eyes. His mouth.

“I want to be with you,” Even says. “It doesn’t even really matter how, just as long as you’ll let me.”

Isak’s fingertips dance across his face, brushing over his eyelids and his lips. Even closes his eyes.

“You make it sound like _you’re_ the lucky one,” Isak says.

“I’m not?”

Isak puts a hand on the back of his neck and pulls him down again.

“It’s me,” Isak exhales against his mouth. “It’s totally me.”

-

Saturday morning, Even actually makes it to therapy on time. He tries to apologize for missing last week’s appointment, but aside from a perfunctory nod and a few bland questions, his therapist doesn’t linger on his fuck-up. He wonders if he finds that preferable to talking about his fuck-up in gruesome detail. He’s not sure he actually knows.

The rest of the session goes more or less the way they usually do. By the time he gets out, he’s already feeling pretty tired, and it’s not even noon yet. Back in Stavanger, his appointments were always at the end of the day, but as much as it sucked having to drag himself to therapy after a long, hard day at school, this probably sucks more. At least when they’re in the evenings, he doesn’t actually have to do anything after they’re over.

As soon as he gets to Isak’s place and Isak opens the door to let him in, though, the exhaustion begins to lift off his shoulders. Isak is so bright and warm and soft when he smiles, it’s almost impossible not to feel better in his presence.

“Hey,” Even says with a grin. “Ready to go?”

Isak lifts his backpack onto his shoulders. “Always,” he answers.

 _Always_ is swiftly becoming Even’s favorite word.

Isak’s flatmates are probably already up and about, so Even doesn’t lean forward to kiss him. Instead, he reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing briefly. Isak shoots him a surprised look, but he doesn’t break their grip. He just holds on tighter.

“Let’s go,” Even says.

-

They take the metro to a local lake, and under the cloudless blue sky, the water looks impossibly magnificent. Even has his camera with him - he needs to practice shooting nature, he’d told Isak, and that’s partially true because he hasn’t actually filmed anything in a while and is more afraid than he’d be willing to admit of his skills turning to rust, but honestly he’d be lying if he didn’t also admit he just wanted an excuse to get Isak on film, too - and they spend some time wandering on the trails, cracking stupid jokes, pausing occasionally so Even can shoot what he purportedly needs. From the outside, with the distance between them and the silly banter, they probably just look like two friends fooling around on a sunny afternoon. It’s partially why Even suggested this for how to spend their Saturday afternoon in the first place. It’s one of the more low-pressure ways of being together in public he can think of.

Then again, as much as he doesn’t mind being seen as friends - and he really doesn’t, because technically, that’s what they are - he has to wonder what it would be like _not_ to be seen as friends. Has to wonder what would happen if he could show the world that the feeling he has in his heart for Isak Valtersen cannot be adequately described with any words.

He’d probably really enjoy holding Isak’s hand in public. He’s not sure that Isak would, at least not right now.

After an hour or so, Even decides he’s content with the footage he’s taken, and they find a place to sit for a while. Their knees knock against each other, arms brushing together. Even’s supposed to be looking through his footage, but Isak is leaning back on his hands and tilting his face toward the sky, and Even has practically no defenses against a sight that beautiful. Isak in the sunlight is the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

“You know, out here I can almost forget that I’m stupidly behind on all of my assignments,” Isak says.

Isak has very, very good reason for not being on top of his assignments, as far as Even is concerned. “Sorry,” he says, even though to Isak it’s probably pretty obvious that he’s not.

Isak huffs out a laugh. “I don’t even feel guilty,” he says. “Is that strange?”

Even doesn’t feel guilty for putting Isak above most of his other life priorities, either.

“You keep on asking that question,” Even says.

“And you never give a straight answer,” Isak says.

“I don’t think it needs a straight answer,” Even says. Mentally, he awards himself points for the amazing pun. Isak probably won’t appreciate it at all. “I’m just taking it as it is.”

“Easier said than done,” Isak says.

Even knew he was going to say that. His heart still clenches in his chest at how small Isak sounds when he says it.

They don’t say anything for a bit. It’s quiet where they are. Hardly any people around. Sometimes when it gets this quiet, the thoughts in Even’s head turn restless, so loud it’s almost unbearable. Here, though, they’re as still as the lake water in front of them, and it doesn’t freak Even out at all. It just makes him feel calm.

Isak breathes in shakily.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

Even looks over in his direction. “Go ahead.”

“How’d you know you were…”

Isak trails off. Someone else might have no idea where he was going with that, but Even has had years of experience learning how to fill in Isak’s blanks. Nothing could take that away, not even distance. Not even time itself.

“How’d I know I was bisexual?” Even says, watching for Isak’s reaction.

Isak’s face hardly changes, which is kind of impressive for him. He does let out a soft exhale, though. That’s pretty difficult to miss.

“Yeah,” Isak says. “That.”

Even puts his camera back into his bag and leans his elbows on his knees. “I watched gay porn,” he says. “It changed my life.”

The punch to his shoulder is swift and forceful. “Be serious,” Isak says.

Even laughs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess I just started noticing I found lots of different kinds of people attractive. I don’t think I knew what being attracted to someone meant until I met Sonja, but once I did I guess most other things fell into place.”

Isak stares at him. “It can’t have been that easy.”

“You’re right,” Even says. “I don’t think it ever is, for anyone. I mean, I really freaked out at the beginning trying to figure out what it all meant. Like, was I actually into this guy or did I want to be his friend or did I want to _be_ him? Shit like that. And then there was the fact that I’d just gotten into a relationship right as I was noticing all these other feelings, and that made me feel really awful, actually. I felt like noticing other people meant I was being - unfaithful? Is that the right word? Or that I was lying about myself, or something. But I was definitely into girls, too, so did that mean I was actually straight? The whole thing was really confusing.”

“But you figured it out,” Isak says.

“Yeah,” Even says. “I guess I did.”

“How?”

“I told someone,” Even says simply. “Told Sonja. Felt so bad about it one day I just came clean to her, about everything.”

“And she was there for you,” Isak says. The expression on his face is strange and inscrutable. Even wonders what lies behind it.

“She was better about it than I expected,” Even says. “I mean, when I told her, I didn’t even use the word bisexual. I just told her I thought everyone was attractive. And she said, ‘so does that mean you’re bi’? And that’s what made me stop and think and say, maybe it is okay to use that word for myself outside my own head.”

Isak says nothing in response. He’s still looking up at the sky, lost in thoughts Even will never be able to fathom.

“I mean,” Even says, “it definitely took some more soul-searching after that. I think sometimes the hardest thing can be to come out to yourself, you know? To think of yourself in a new way. But eventually I told my parents, and then I told friends, and everyone was really good about it. Having that support doesn’t make it easier to come out, per se, but it’s nice to feel like you’re in an environment where you can be comfortable enough to be yourself.”

Isak nods. “That does sound nice,” he says. His voice seems tinged with something bittersweet. Sadness? Wistfulness? Maybe he doesn’t think he has that kind of environment, himself. Even has his own thoughts about that, but he can’t try to convince Isak otherwise. It’s a thing he has to come to terms with himself, whether the risk is worth it or not.

“What are you thinking?” Even says.

Isak’s eyes flicker over to Even. “I’m trying to figure out what it means,” he says. “That I feel this way about you.”

The words send an inconvenient thrill tingling down Even’s spine. Calm your shit, he scolds himself, this isn’t about you. “Do you think it means you might be bi, or gay?” he says, pointedly ignoring the warmth prickling at his heart.

Isak exhales. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just know I’ve never felt this way before.”

This time, there’s no ignoring the way that sentence makes his heart implode.

“Me neither,” Even says softly.

Their eyes meet warmly, at that, and though Isak looks away soon after it’s impossible to miss the smile on his face, small as it is.

“You know,” Isak says, “I was pretty surprised to hear you were bi, all things considered.”

Even blinks. “Wait, really? I hadn’t told you?”

Isak frowns at him. “Uh, no? The time you showed me your bi pride flag was literally the first I’d heard of it?”

Even bursts into laughter. “Oh my god, really? I could have sworn I told you!”

“Yes, really,” Isak says. His frown hasn’t gone away. “I don’t understand why you find this funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Even says, because Isak’s right, he should be taking this more seriously. “I just - I’ve been out for so long, I forgot there were people I wasn’t out to yet.”

When he puts it like that, it really doesn’t sound funny anymore. Isak casts his gaze toward the ground.

“Oh,” he says.

A sudden and stark reminder of all the things Even’s never told him. Exactly what he needed right now.

“I’m sorry, Isak,” Even says. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“It’s okay,” Isak says. “We got here eventually, didn’t we?”

The relief that rushes through Even’s veins to hear something like that pulls a grin out of him. “We did. We really did.”

Isak looks back at him, and he’s not exactly smiling, but for once he doesn’t have his trademark frown on, either. He just looks thoughtful.

“Do you think…” He breaks off, breathes in, tries again. “Do you think I should tell people about us?”

 _Yes_ , Even wants to say. _I think we should tell the entire universe._

But he of all people should know what it’s like to have a secret that’s near impossible to say out loud.

“I think you should do whatever you’re comfortable with,” Even says. “If you don’t want to tell people, that’s up to you.”

“But that’s the thing,” Isak says. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell people. It’s just… It’s - ”

“You don’t know what’ll happen after you do,” Even says.

“Yeah,” Isak says, staring down at his hands. “That.”

Even is more familiar with that feeling than he probably should be.

“Well,” Even says. “As someone wise once told me, you know that whatever you decide to do, I’ll be there for you.”

Isak’s answering laugh sounds surprised, but genuine. The smile he has on his face now, hopeful yet so tentative it’s almost as if Isak doesn’t want to be, actually hurts to look at. Even doesn’t look away, because after literal years of not being able to see Isak’s smile, he would be an idiot not to take every opportunity he can to witness it now. He hopes he gets to see that smile every single day of his life. It feels like it should be an impossible thing to wish for. He wishes anyway.

“Promise?” Isak says.

“Yeah,” Even says. “Promise.”

Normally, that would feel like an impossible thing to say, too. Right now, it just feels real. Wonderfully and achingly real.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You really think it’ll be okay?” he says.
> 
> “I know it will,” Even says.
> 
> (As many doubts as Isak has, he has to admit that those words, when they come from Even, are the greatest comfort he might ever hope to have.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, shout-out to [sanas4main](http://sanas4main.tumblr.com) for making this [breathtakingly gorgeous edit](http://sanas4main.tumblr.com/post/161206084113/making-new-clich%C3%A9s-by-sanashappinessisendgame) based on the last chapter. If you haven't put it in your eyeballs yet, please do so! Weeks later, I'm still in awe.
> 
> Also, shout-out to my beta readers and the various other people who encouraged me throughout the writing of this chapter. Without their support it probably would have taken me even longer to put it up. They do so with every chapter, unfailingly, but after the last few weeks it feels especially appropriate to thank them now. So thank you, my friends. I couldn't do this without you.

_ii._

**Fucker**   
_Something very important just occurred to me_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_?_

**Fucker**   
_Am i still saved in your phone as fucker???_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Even that literally isn’t important at all_

**Fucker**   
_That’s not a denial_   
_And you know it’s not even true if you think about it_ _  
Not yet anyway_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Are you implying what i think you’re implying_ _  
_ _Oh my fucking god_

**Fucker**   
_I mean i’m just saying_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_This is terrible_   
_You’re terrible_ _  
I’m never talking to you again_

**Fucker**   
_Noooooo baby don’t do this to me_ _  
_ _Your boundaries matter to me i promise!_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_I actually hate you_

**Fucker**   
_Clearly, from the fact that you still have me saved in your phone under such a rude word_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Does it even matter what I call you in my phone?_ _  
_ _You’re still you_

**Fucker**   
_I guess you’re right_   
_It’s just been a long time, hasn’t it?_   
_Like you said_ _  
Some things change_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_But like you said_ _  
_ _Some things never do_

**Fucker**   
_Like my name in your contact list apparently_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Yeah exactly_ _  
_ _You get it_

**Fucker**   
_You’re such a little shit_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Yeah probably_   
_You’re still stuck with me though_ _  
Sorry about it_

**Fucker**   
_You’re right_   
_I guess I don’t mind_ _  
_ _< 3_

-

**6 unread messages from: Mom**

-

**Magnus Fossbakken**   
_Guys guys guys_   
_What if_   
_We did something today_ _  
That WASN’T just smoking weed in Jonas’ basement_

**Jonas Vasquez**   
_Wow_ _  
_ _Revolutionary thinking_

**Magnus Fossbakken**   
_Face it guys we’re the most boring teenagers on the planet_

**Mahdi Disi**   
_Hey man we don’t just smoke weed_ _  
_ _I’m hurt that’s all you think our friendship is_

**Magnus Fossbakken**   
_Well okay but also_   
_I’m so boooored_   
_I need to get laid, holy shit_   
_We’re going out this Friday right??_   
_Isak pleaseeee be my wingman_   
_Please hook me up with a hot chick_   
_I’m begging you_ _  
Isak?????_

-

**Jonas Vasquez**   
_Hey dude_ _  
_ _Everything okay?_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Yeah?_ _  
_ _Why do you keep asking_

**Jonas Vasquez**   
_Hey man sorry if it bothers you_   
_We only see you at school these days_ _  
I mean you do you and all_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_But?_

**Jonas Vasquez**   
_I don’t know man_   
_Just_ _  
If you need anything, say the word, you know?_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Yeah I know_ _  
_ _I’m sorry I’ve been a shitty friend_

**Jonas Vasquez** ****  
_Dude you’re not a shitty friend_ _  
_ _I’m just worried, that’s all_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_You’re such a mom_

**Jonas Vasquez**   
_Haha_ _  
_ _Is that a bad thing_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_I guess not_   
_Really though_   
_Sorry for worrying you_   
_I promise you I’m good_   
_Just dealing with a lot of things right now_   
_But it’s not a big deal_ _  
Just… a lot_

**Jonas Vasquez**   
_Okay, cool_ _  
_ _Again, if you ever need anything at all_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_You’ll be the first to know_

-

**Dad**   
_Can you answer your mother’s messages Isak? She’s worried about you._

-

**7 unread messages from: Mom**

-

**Isak Valtersen**   
_I’m pretty sure Eskild knows something_

**Fucker**   
_What makes you say that_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Just a hunch_   
_He keeps on saying weirdly supportive shit_   
_Everyone does honestly_   
_Like “if you need to talk I’m here”_ _  
Man but what if I don’t want to_

**Fucker**   
_Haha_ _  
_ _It could be helpful though?_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_I mean I can talk to you about stuff_

**Fucker**   
_True_   
_Still, I’m just one person_   
_Your other friends can give you different perspectives that I can’t_ _  
Also, I’m hugely biased_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_But my other friends would be too_

**Fucker**   
_Do they think you’re as cute as I do?_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_I’m not fucking cute!_   
_I am the opposite of cute_ _  
I am… uncute_

**Fucker**   
_Whatever you say ;)_   
_In all seriousness_   
_You know you don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to?_ _  
I’m glad they’re there for you though_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Yeah_   
_I guess that makes me lucky_ _  
That some people out there actually give a shit about me_

**Fucker**   
_Personally, I think that's the way it should be_ _  
_ _But that’s just me <3 _

-

**8 unread messages from: Mom**

-

**Dad**   
_Can we talk?_

-

**Sana Bakkoush**   
_Are you ready for the midterm exam_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Born ready_

**Sana Bakkoush**   
_Yeah, sure_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_You don’t think I know my shit?_

**Sana Bakkoush**   
_Eh_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Sana I’m so offended_

**Sana Bakkoush**   
_You forgot to do the homework last week_   
_Twice_ _  
I had to *help* you_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Right and we all know how much you hate helping people_ _  
_ _But I had reasons_

**Sana Bakkoush**   
_Like what_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Like_ _  
_ _Uh_

**Sana Bakkoush**   
… _Right_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Fuck you I’m still getting straight 6’s on the assignments_ _  
_ _That’s better than you_

**Sana Bakkoush**   
_Good luck Isak_ _  
_ _That’s all I can say_

-

**9 unread messages from: Mom**

-

**Dad**   
_Isak it’s very immature of you not to answer your messages_ _  
_ _Give me a call this weekend, please_

-

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Fuuuuuuuuuck_

**Fucker**   
_What’s up?_ _  
_ _Are you okay?_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Yeah I just_ _  
_ _Miss you_

**Fucker**   
_We saw each other yesterday_ _  
_ _Desperate much? ;)_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_So?_ _  
_ _You probably miss me harder_

**Fucker**   
_You’re probably right_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Sentimental fucker that you are_

**Fucker**   
_Living up to my name in your phone?_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_When are you going to let that go_

**Fucker**   
_Absolutely never_   
_Want to come over?_ _  
Parents already went to bed but you can just be really sneaky about it_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Are you encouraging me to break into your own home_

**Fucker**   
_“Breaking in” is such a strong term_ _  
_ _Is it breaking in if I leave the door unlocked for you?_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Wow that doesn’t sound very safe_ _  
_ _Better hope I get there before any serial killers do_

**Fucker**   
_Better get here fast, then_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Give me fifteen_

-

**Eskild Tryggvason**   
_Isak Valtersen I went into your room to complain about you not doing the dishes and you’re not here?_   
_Isak Valtersen did you sneak out??_   
_Right under my nose???_   
_I can’t even be mad, I just have this weird sense of pride._ _  
Anyway at your earliest convenience PLEASE DO YOUR DISHES SO I DON’T HAVE TO and also please text me so I know you’re safe, thank you  <3_

-

Isak flings his phone away from him with a loud groan.

“All my friends are such fucking _parents_ ,” Isak says.

Even looks over at him and raises his eyebrows. He currently has a book on his lap and his legs resting across Isak’s thighs.

“Does that make me your father?” Even says. “Because I don’t really know how to feel about that.”

“Oh my god,” Isak says. “You went there. You actually went there.”

Even grins like the shiteating asshole he is. “I don’t know what you expected. You said friends, and I’m your friend.”

Isak scoffs. “We’re not friends.”

“Oh?” Even’s eyebrows shoot up higher. “So what are we, then?”

Isak pushes Even’s legs off of him. He grabs hold of Even’s wrist, pulling lightly, and that’s all it takes for Even to understand what he’s aiming for. Even shoves his book away and comes over to where Isak is sitting, arms wrapping around his middle easily. Isak does not melt into the touch.

(He totally does.)

“We have a partnership of convenience,” Isak says.

Even’s eyes flicker down to his lips. “What kind of convenience?”

Isak leans in close.

“Take a guess,” he says.

Even smiles softly and tilts his face forward, bridging the gap between them. Their lips meet sweetly, a stark contrast to the words they’d just been exchanging. Isak’s heart flutters in his chest, but he can’t even be mad about it. The warmth of Even’s mouth sends a pleasant shiver down his spine he’s sure is never going to get old.

Fuck, this is why studying with Even is such a terrible idea. It almost always ends in making out.

(Not that Isak is going to complain.)

When they pull away, Even knocks his forehead gently against Isak’s.

“What were you saying earlier?” Even says. “Before I so rudely interrupted you.”

“I was talking about Eskild,” Isak says. “He wants me to send him a text so he knows I’m _safe_. Like I’m a child.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s cool you’ve got someone like that in your life,” Even says. “Someone who’s looking out for you.”

His voice is light. Immensely casual. That catches Isak’s attention, a little. It’s the way Even’s voice sounds when he’s actively trying to be nonchalant, which means that’s not how he really feels. If Even was actually casual about this, he wouldn’t need to try.

“Yeah?” Isak says.

“Yeah,” Even says. “He hasn’t told me much about how you guys met - told me to ask you, actually - but it sounds like there’s a hell of a story behind it. He said something about a gay bar?”

“Wow, really?” Isak groans. “I’m going to murder his ass.”

Even’s arm squeezes tightly around Isak. “Why?”

“He’s made it sound like I knew it was a gay bar,” Isak says petulantly.

Even laughs. “Isak, I’m pretty sure you’d know if you were in a gay bar.”

“I didn’t, though,” Isak insists.

Even quirks an eyebrow. “Wow, how’d you manage that?”

Isak hesitates, at that.

“I had a lot on my mind,” he says.

“Like?”

Like how he got home that day just half an hour after he usually did, and the house was already in complete disarray.

Like all the missed calls and texts from his father, calm disapproval permeating every word, the unspoken _you should have taken care of her better, you should have done better, you should have been better_ written between every line.

Like how when he got in his mom was already screaming, screaming and screaming at someone or something Isak couldn’t see, looking straight past him like he was a ghost, and when she finally did see him, she screamed at him, too.

Like the thought, repeating itself over and over in his head like a broken record, that she was beyond saving. That there was nothing he could do to help her if she couldn’t help herself. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Like the realization, cold and heavy in his chest, that he didn’t _want_ to help her anymore.

And he wanted to feel terrible about it. He wanted to feel wretched with guilt. He felt that he should.

(But he didn’t. He just felt tired.)

Isak exhales, hard.

“Just... A lot.” He looks down at his hands. Amazingly enough, they’re steady in his lap. “You know, that’s the night I moved into the flat, actually.”

“Wow,” Even says. “You move fast.”

“Yeah, well.” Isak lets out a half-hearted laugh. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Even doesn't answer. Isak can feel his eyes on him. He can’t imagine what Even must be thinking.

Then again, he kind of hopes Even’s not wondering too much about Isak’s family drama. If Even thinks too much about it, he might ask about it. And if he asks about it, Isak’s not sure he can give him the answers he’s looking for.

(Not sure he has them in the first place.)

Isak clears his throat. “Anyway, yeah,” he says. “So I was at this bar. Got drunk out of my mind. Ran into Eskild. And then... blah, blah, blah.”

A moment of silence passes. Even leans his head against Isak’s temple and sighs, quietly.

“I’m glad he was there for you,” Even says.

And you know what, maybe Isak is, too.

(Maybe he’s glad someone was there at all.)

“Are you glad he’s here now?” Isak says. “He keeps on getting on our asses for the stupidest shit.”

Even laughs. “Your ass, maybe. He loves me.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Of course he does, though. Everyone loves you.”

“Do they, now,” Even says.

“But not me, of course,” Isak says quickly. “I hate you. I despise you.”

Even bursts into a grin. “Right.”

“Yeah, exactly right,” Isak says. “Because I see you for who you are.”

“And who’s that?” Even says, eyes alight with amusement.

Even though Isak knows it’s a joke that he should answer with a joke of his own, the real answer to that question comes to mind way too easily. Even is a lot of things, so it’s not hard to think of at least some of them. He’s Isak’s best friend, for starters, or one of them at least. He’s a boy who cares. He’s a boy Isak cares about.

He’s kind, endlessly kind. He’s smart, and he always knows the right things to say.

He’s beautiful, inside and out.

(He’s fucking beautiful.)

The idea of saying any of that out loud makes Isak feel a little stupid, mostly because it all feels so fucking obvious. He’s almost certain Even knows all this shit already. Instead of trying to think of anything else to say, he leans forward and kisses Even on the mouth. Even’s hand flies to his waist, and he closes his eyes. The messy words in his head fade to wondrous, blissful silence.

-

Isak blinks awake at seven thirty in the morning.

Even’s already up and about. Being on a lofted bed means Isak can’t see what he’s up to, but it sounds like he’s shuffling around for clothing and pulling it on. Fairly normal morning stuff. It’s just, why is he doing this so fucking _early_?

“Baby, what’s going on,” Isak mumbles. “Do I have to wake up? I don’t want to wake up.”

Even pauses. He lets out a soft laugh. A moment later, his head pops up next to Isak’s. “You’re seriously adorable when you’re exhausted, has anyone ever told you that?” he says.

Isak squints at him. “How’s your head doing that?” he says. “Are you magic?”

Even leans forward and presses a warm kiss to his cheek. “I’m on the ladder.” His head disappears.

Isak frowns. “No, wait, come back, I want more kisses.”

“I wish, but I have to go soon.”

Where the fuck could Even possibly have to go at ass o’ clock in the morning?

“Where the fuck,” Isak says, but that’s as far as he gets. He’s too tired to make it all the way through the sentence.

“It’s Saturday,” Even says.

That’s not an explanation.

“That’s not…”

Isak’s eyes slip closed of their own volition. For a moment, he struggles against the sleepiness clouding his brain, but it’s a futile battle when Even’s duvet is so warm and his body is so utterly unwilling to move for the rest of forever. The words inside his head begin to blur at the edges. He feels warm fingers in his hair, slow, gentle. A thumb skimming over his cheek. Exhaled breaths whispering over his skin.

“I’m sorry,” someone far away says.

(What for?)

The question flits across Isak’s mind briefly like an epiphany, and he reaches for it, trying to hold on long enough to remember. But the exhaustion really is too much to fend off, finally. The darkness makes his thoughts go quiet.

-

When Isak wakes up properly, he really is alone.

It’s a bizarre feeling to wake up in a bed that isn’t your own when the person it belongs to isn’t there. He’s entirely disoriented for his first few moments of consciousness, confusion over where he is melting seamlessly into confusion over where Even is. Blindly, he gropes for his phone. He finds a sheet of paper on the pillow next to him instead.

It’s a comic, drawn in Even’s old style. Cartoon-Isak stares at what looks like Even’s disembodied head. Arrows and little scrawled directions indicate the head is doing cartwheels and back flips in mid-air. Cartoon-Isak is saying, _How’s your head doing that?_

Real-Isak rolls his eyes.

On the back, there’s a note.

_Out with parents all day. You looked so peaceful sleeping I couldn’t bear to wake you up, it’d be too painful. Miss you already. See you Monday?_

_-Fucker_

_PS - My parents know you’re here so don’t feel too weird about it, you know they don’t give a fuck. Mostly they just think I’m ridiculous._

Isak might be inclined to agree. No one but the most ridiculous of human beings would think Isak would be reassured by the idea that Even’s parents knew he snuck in last night.

(And actually be right.)

Isak folds the drawing in half and sighs. Still, this means he should probably go home now.

Somehow during the night his clothes got lost in the haphazard mess of Even’s room. Isak isn’t sure how this happened when the both of them spent the vast majority of their time in bed, but some things in this world just defy human understanding, and Even’s bedroom floor is one of them. He manages to salvage his jeans from the chaos, but has to give up on his shirt after a few minutes of increasingly frustrated searching. Honestly, he might as well just steal something of Even’s. He doubts Even would mind.

(Probably quite the opposite, actually, but maybe that’s just Isak projecting. The thought of Even in his clothes is more than enough to make heat prickle deep in his gut. He’d feel ridiculous if it didn’t feel so damn justified.)

After a few more moments of frantic searching, his hands latch onto a soft, grey hoodie. On an impulse, he brings it up to his face. It doesn’t smell like it’s been washed in a few days, but it’s clean enough, and it’s unmistakably Even’s. Not a smell he can describe, but instantly recognizable nonetheless.

(Instantly comforting.)

It occurs to him, then, that standing in the middle of your best friend’s room reflecting on how much his clothes smell like him is kind of really gross. Hastily, he slips the hoodie on. He’s not about to become a sentimental fucker like Even.

(He’s _not_.)

In any case, he’s glad to finally leave the place, because even if he knows on a logical level that Even’s parents are okay with him being there — more than okay, probably; he doesn’t remember a single time they’ve ever said no to him staying over — it’s another thing to actually _be_ in someone else’s home when no one else is there. He feels like an awkward intruder, taking up someone’s space and energy and resources without asking. Like he’s somewhere he doesn’t belong.

(Then again, is that a thing he ever stops feeling?)

When he leaves Even’s flat, he takes in a deep breath. The morning air is crisp, and it clears his head, fills his lungs, loosens the tightness in his chest a little. As accustomed as he is to making the trek back to his flat with someone else by his side, the solitude is nice, too. It gives him time to breathe for a while. Gives him time to think.

Nowadays, he thinks a lot about Even, mostly because he’s slowly learning how to let himself do that. It still feels a little thrilling to do it. Mostly in a good way.

(But if he’s being honest, it’s a little scary, too.)

Logically, he knows no one can see inside his head. Sometimes, though, it feels like that doesn’t matter. Sometimes it feels like his thoughts are screaming so loud the whole world can hear. Like if he wasn’t careful enough, if he smiled at the wrong time or tilted his head the wrong way, everyone would know.

(Know what, though?)

That’s what’s so hard to figure out. What the fuck is he so scared of?

He doesn’t think his feelings for Even are scary. Not anymore, anyway. He doesn’t think what they have right now is scary, either. It makes him feel a lot of things; fear is not one of them.

Is it the thought of how everyone else would feel about it, then? How everyone else would react?

Or is it the mere thought of people just looking at him?

(The thing is, he doesn’t know if what he’s really scared of will actually happen, and maybe that’s what scares him most of all.)

His phone buzzes in his pocket, jolting him out of his thoughts. His heart kicks in his chest. He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out.

**Dad**   
_Please, can you call me today?_

He stares at the words. His heartbeat does not slow down.

But he shouldn’t feel so torn up about this. He saw it coming, didn’t he? His dad asked him the same thing last night. It’s the whole reason why he was at Even’s in the first place.

(Because that’s what he does when it comes to his parents.

That’s what he’s always done.)

Isak swallows, hard. He switches off the phone. He slips it back into his pocket and starts walking again.

Maybe if Isak misses enough calls, his father will just forget he exists.

(Honestly, it doesn’t seem entirely outside the realm of possibility.)

-

His friends burst into raucous cheers when he approaches their lunch table on Monday.

“What the fuck,” Isak mumbles. His shit heap of a sleep schedule really kicked his ass last night, and now he can feel a bit of a headache coming on. He really isn’t in the mood right now.

“We were taking bets on if you were gonna show up today,” Magnus says.

“I just want you to know that I’d never doubt you, bro,” Jonas says.

“What the fuck?” Isak repeats indignantly. “What the fuck would you do that for?”

“Whoa, dude, chill,” Mahdi says holding his hands up. “It was just a joke.”

“Plus, you’ve been so flaky everywhere else,” Magnus says with a shrug.

And just like that, Isak feels a little of the fight go out of him. It’s replaced quickly with guilt. That’s fair of them to accuse him of, honestly. More than fair.

(It’s that incessant worry, illogical as it is, about the world seeing through him. Because if any stranger on the street could see into his head, his boys could probably live there.)

“No worries, man, no worries,” Jonas says quickly, probably after seeing the expression on Isak’s face. Just proving his point further, really. “We know you’ve got your own life.”

Magnus opens his mouth to say something, but Jonas shoots him a look, and he closes it. Isak knows that’s supposed to make him feel more reassured around them. He doesn’t feel that way. He feels a little uncomfortable, actually.

(A little undeserving.)

Isak shifts in his chair.

“So what were you guys up to over the weekend?” he tries. It seems a safe enough topic to breach.

Jonas breaks into a grin. “Bro, there was the most _killer_ party.”

“Damn,” Isak says, cracking a smile. “Sorry I missed it, then.”

“Yeah, missed Magnus fucking up with a girl, maybe,” Mahdi says. “Multiple girls.”

Magnus groans. “They just weren’t my type, okay, I wasn’t that invested.”

Jonas raises his eyebrows. “Pretty much anyone is your type, Magnus.”

Magnus gasps loudly. “That is so not true,” he says. “None of _you_ fuckers are.”

Jonas and Mahdi let out scandalized laughs. For some reason, Isak can’t really bring himself to laugh along with them.

“Jonas is everyone’s type,” Mahdi says, mock disapproval in his voice. “That’s just a fact.”

It’s just a joke, Isak reminds himself. Just a joke. It doesn’t mean anything.

(Doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.)

“Blatant lies,” Magnus tuts. “Isak, what do you think?”

They’ve all turned their heads in his direction now, which means he actually has to think of something to say. A few weeks ago, this would have been easy. A few weeks ago he would have known exactly the kind of joke to make, would have said it without even thinking.

Right now, though, he can’t. He can’t think of a single fucking thing to say.

(He can’t think at all.)

“He’s okay,” Isak says, looking down at the sandwich in his hands. “I don’t know, I don’t think about it that much.”

“Um, okay,” Mahdi says. “Well, Jonas, I for one think you’re very good looking.”

“Wow, thanks, man,” Jonas says, reaching across the table to give him a fist bump.

“And Mags, we’re just teasing, yeah?” Mahdi says. “One day you’ll find a girl who doesn’t think you fucked up at all.”

“Goals, honestly,” Jonas says. “Find you a woman who accepts you for who you are.”

“Maybe once I actually get fucking laid,” Magnus says. “I’ll worry about romance after that. God, can’t you guys just will your hooking up skills onto me? Take pity on a poor soul.”

“That’s, uh,” Jonas says. “That’s not how it works.”

“And besides, none of us have hooked up recently, either,” Mahdi says. “Not even the mighty Isak, over here.”

Isak chokes on his drink.

Jonas thumps him on the back. “Bro, you okay?”

Isak coughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yup. I’m totally fine. Sorry. Complete accident.”

“I’m right, though,” Mahdi says. “Right? Not since that party before school started.”

Right. He supposes it depends on the definition of hooking up they’re using here.

(Even’s fingers tugging on his hair, gently, insistently. Even’s eyes, burning in the dark. Even’s mouth. Warm, slightly chapped lips, moving against his like they were always meant to do that.

Surely somewhere out there, in some universe, that wouldn’t qualify as hooking up.)

Isak takes in a breath.

“Nah, I haven’t hooked up with any girls,” he says.

For half a second, he wonders if even an answer like that would give too much away. Wonders if his voice will waver on the words. Wonders if his hands will shake.

“Yeah, that figures,” Mahdi says with a sensible nod. “See, Magnus, we’re all losers.”

And the conversation moves on, after that.

(And everything inside Isak is still.)

-

On the way home from school, Isak almost holds Even’s hand.

He’s been thinking about it all day, what it would be like to just reach over and catch his best friend’s fingers between his own. He knows how they feel on his skin already, warm and steady and reassuring. That’s not the scary part. Touching him isn’t the scary part.

In the end, though, he doesn’t feel like he needs to. Even stands next to him on the tram, hand occasionally brushing the back of Isak’s knuckles, and he smiles brightly at him. Seeing something like that is already enough to make Isak feel close to him.

“So I see you stole my hoodie,” Even says.

Isak ignores the way his cheeks warm at that statement. “That obvious?”

(Honestly, though, he couldn’t resist this morning, not when it was right there within his reach. He’ll have to give it back eventually, but in the meantime, putting it on is as good a reminder as any that Even is in his life, and here to stay.)

Even reaches out and tugs at the strings. “I’d know it anywhere,” he says. “It suits you, though.”

“Yeah?” Isak looks up at him, feeling bold. “You like seeing me in it?”

The corner of Even’s mouth twitches upward into a knowing smile. He leans in, just a little. Just enough for Isak to feel unsteady on his feet.

“What do you think?” Even says softly.

Isak’s mouth dries up. Fuck, every time Isak tries to throw him off, it just blows up in his fucking face.

Even lets out a laugh and rocks back on his heels. The bastard.

“Anyway,” he says. “How was your day?”

Isak looks down at his shoes. His conversation with the boys is still echoing through his thoughts, words bouncing off the walls of his head in an unpredictable sort of chaos. He doesn’t know what to say about it.

(Doesn’t know how to feel about it.)

“I don’t know,” Isak says.

Even nods. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Isak smiles sheepishly. “Not really?”

Even looks at him for a bit. He reaches out and squeezes Isak’s hand. His palm covers Isak’s knuckles warmly.

“Okay,” Even says.

It’s a special kind of comfort, that word and his touch. A small, insignificant thing. Still, it calms him.

-

Why doesn’t he want to talk about it, though?

What reason is there not to?

Maybe it’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe it’s that he feels like he _shouldn’t_ talk about it.

(Maybe he just doesn’t know how.)

Trying to understand the distinction kind of makes his head hurt. Which doesn’t help when he’s trying to study for his upcoming midterm exam, but that already became a lost cause the moment he decided it would be a good idea to study with Even. At this point, he should know it’s not. Especially not like this, when Even’s got Isak’s legs pulled into his lap and one hand resting lightly on his thigh. He’s pretty sure the fucker is doing it on purpose, goddammit.

But he can’t help it. When he’s spent so long without Even’s company, when he’s spent even longer actively restraining himself from enjoying it for too long, is it any wonder he can’t resist the chance to spend time with Even when it’s just _there_?

Fuck self-control. He’s going to indulge this all he wants, and nothing can stop him now.

(Nothing in the whole world.)

“God,” Isak says. “Can we have a study break or something?”

Even’s eyes flicker up to him.

A moment later, he’s taken Isak’s book and shoved it away. He swings a leg over Isak’s lap so that he’s straddling him, knees next to his hips. Even takes Isak’s face between his hands, and smiles.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says.

The fact that “study break” now translates to “ make-out session” is nothing short of incredible to Isak. The fact that Even knows that’s what he means is even more incredible. Their lips collide, and it feels like it’s been far too long since the last time, like Isak’s gone years without kissing him even though it’s been more like a matter of minutes. But it feels almost new every time. Feels endlessly thrilling, endlessly good. Isak could try to get used to the feeling of Even’s mouth moving against his but he could never get used to the heat that twists in the pit of his stomach, the way his heart beats a thousand miles a minute, the way Even just completely and effortlessly encompasses him, surrounds him until his name feels like the only word he can remember. No matter how many times they kiss, Isak is sure it could never be enough.

Isak’s hands clutch at the front of Even’s shirt, pulling him closer. Even’s lips part, gasping hotly into Isak’s mouth. He takes it, takes all of it, takes and takes because this feels right to him, this feels so fucking easy even when nothing else does. All they have to do is move together, and everything else falls into place, just like that.

Even’s fingers tighten around the line of Isak’s jaw the moment his teeth catch on Isak’s bottom lip and pull. Isak’s breath hitches in time to the skipping of his heartbeat. Even grins against his mouth, and Isak feels it more than he sees it, wicked as anything. It’s good. God, it’s so fucking good.

“You okay?” Even whispers, words trembling on his tongue.

Isak isn’t okay.

(Isak is on top of the world.)

Words are kind of hard to say right now. He doesn’t try to say anything. He lets go of Even’s shirt and pulls at the hem of it instead. Even breaks away abruptly, leaning back and staring at Isak with wide, bright eyes. Not so far away Isak can’t still touch him, though. He tugs, and finally Even gets the hint, takes hold of the shirt himself and pulls it over his head.

And there he is.

(There he fucking is.)

He’s still staring at Isak, watching him, waiting, because that’s what he always does. They’re patient, his eyes. Patient and filled with all the kindness in the universe.

Isak stares back. He reaches out and rests his hands on Even’s warm skin. He can feel the way Even’s breath stumbles over itself, the way it freezes in his lungs at Isak’s touch. Slowly, Isak moves his palms over Even’s chest. The ridges of his ribcage. The flat plane of his stomach. His fingertips stumble across Even’s pulse, beating hard and fast, and that’s where his right hand stops, fingers splayed over Even’s heart.

Even’s eyes flutter shut. He breathes in once, deeply. He’s beautiful like this, chest laid bare and heartbeat in Isak’s hands. Goddamn beautiful.

His hands come down to rest gently on Isak’s shoulders, and he leans forward slowly, painstakingly slow, until their lips brush against each other. And this is slow, too, so slow Isak can hardly stand it, so slow it almost hurts. And Even kisses him again, and again, and again, and each time it gets warmer and more insistent and more real.

And this time, he doesn’t pull away.

And it stops hurting, after a while.

It stops being anything but fucking breathtaking.

-

After, Even hooks an arm around Isak and pulls him close. Just as well, because being anywhere but this bed is pretty much the last thing Isak wants to do right now. Even is so warm. Everything is so warm.

“Was thinking about something I said earlier,” Isak says. “But I’m not sure I should be thinking about it.”

“Mm.” Even’s fingers are tangled in his hair, brushing it back from his forehead in a soothing, repetitive motion. “Clearly, you’re just so self-absorbed.”

“Fuck off, asshole,” Isak says, though he can’t bring himself to roll his eyes like he normally would. Lying next to Even under the covers makes him feel too good to pretend he’s pissed. “That’s not what I meant.”

Even laughs softly. His breath tickles Isak’s ear. “What did you mean, then?”

“It just, I don’t know, it just seems so stupid,” Isak says. He turns his head so that he’s looking at Even. “You know? Like, not really a thing worth worrying about.”

Even’s fingers start tracing over Isak’s face. His forehead, his eyebrows. “That doesn’t mean it’s not worth saying.”

Isak frowns. “Doesn’t it?”

“I’d listen to anything you had to say,” Even says.

(God. This feels kind of stupid too, the way Isak’s heart kicks in his chest even though he knows he’s heard Even say this before.)

“And I know most people who care about you would, too,” Even continues. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Isak’s hair. “So if you have people listening to what you have to say, then it’s worth saying.”

Isak swallows. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Even says. “And you know my opinion matters more than anyone else’s, obviously.”

“Well, yeah,” Isak says. “It does to me.”

Even is silent, for a moment. Only a moment before he huffs out a laugh.

“So what was it you were thinking about?” he says.

“When I said I didn’t want to talk about my day,” Isak says. “I don’t know if that was the truth.”

Even gives him an appraising look. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know,” Isak repeats. “I really don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?” Even says.

“Where the fuck do I begin?” Isak lets out a short laugh. “I don’t know if I want to talk about my day. I don’t know if I _should_ talk about my day, or anything happening to me, really.”

“What’s the difference?” Even says.

“Well, fuck, there’s another thing I don’t know,” Isak says. “It just feels like so fucking much sometimes. Like - like earlier today, my friends were asking about the last time I hooked up with someone, and I said I hadn’t hooked up with a girl in a while, and that was the truth, and it felt good to say it. And they didn’t say anything, either. I mean, it’s not something you raise your eyebrows at, I guess, but they moved on so quickly after I said it. Just like that. Even though to me it felt like a big deal just to say that much.”

He almost wants to look away from Even. Maybe it would be easier if he wasn’t looking at anyone at all. Except Even doesn’t make him feel the way he feels when most other people look at him. When other people look at him, he feels scrutinized. Like he’s being judged.

When Even looks at him, he just feels like a person.

“I don’t know if it should have been a big deal,” Isak says. “I don’t know if I should have just told the whole truth right then and there. I don’t know if that would even matter.”

It’s a lot of words, he knows. He’s not used to talking so damn much. He’s not used to being okay with that. But there’s just something about the way Even’s looking at him now, eyes all quiet and serious. Something about how that gaze never wavers. It makes him feel listened to, for once in his life.

(For once, he doesn’t feel bad about wanting to be listened to.)

“Most of all,” Isak says, “I don’t know - ”

He breaks off sharply. Even doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He stays.

Isak inhales shakily. “I don’t know what it means,” he says. “That something like this… Something like - something like you. I don’t know what it means that what I have with you could make me feel so happy and so overwhelmed and so free and so scared all at once.”

At that, Even’s eyes grow soft. He lays his hand against the line of Isak’s jaw, gently. For a moment, for two, they lie there together, just like this. Until finally, Isak says, a whisper into the silence -

“I don’t fucking know shit.”

(Somehow, that’s the hardest thing to say of all.)

Even’s gaze is warm and steady. He tilts his head forward and kisses him, slowly and carefully. Like he’s swallowing down the words.

“You don’t have to know, Isak,” Even says against his mouth. “That’s okay. I promise you, it’s okay.”

Isak leans forward until their foreheads are touching. He closes his eyes. He breathes.

(He breathes.)

“You think so?” Isak says.

Even laughs quietly.

“If you could see the list of the things I don’t know, it’d circle the world three times over,” Even says.

“You’re so full of shit,” Isak says, and though he means it as a joke, he can hear the weight in his own words even as he says them.

“What do you mean?” Even says.

“I don’t know, you just...” Isak pauses, trying to find the right words. “I know you said you don’t know everything, but there’s a lot of things you know that I don’t.”

“Okay,” Even says. “Debatable, but okay. Like what?”

“Like… like the fact that you know that you’re bi.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, mostly because it’s something Isak’s been thinking about more than he should. “You said it yourself. You’ve known for years, haven’t you?”

Even leans his head back and looks at Isak for a long moment.

“Well, for one, the way I identify can change,” he says. “I could decide somewhere along the line the label ‘pansexual’ fits me better, for example. Not even my identity is something I know for sure, because every day I’m learning new things about myself.”

He pulls his hand through Isak’s hair gently, a comforting motion.

“And I think you do know things about yourself,” Even says. “More than you give yourself credit for.”

Isak snorts. Now, that can’t be right.

“I’m serious,” Even says. “You know you feel something right now, don’t you? Something for me?”

“Yeah,” Isak says, cautiously.

“You know I feel it right back,” Even says.

Isak swallows. “Yeah?”

Even presses a slow kiss to his cheek.

“And you know this is real,” he whispers.

(Fuck, maybe he does. Maybe he thinks this is the realest thing he’s ever had.)

“Besides,” Even says. “No one knows everything. There’s too much out there to know.”

“That just goes without saying,” Isak says.

“But this is why we talk to other people,” Even says. “This is why you just said all this to me. Even if I can’t help you figure it out, I can at least make you feel that much less alone.”

Isak thinks, for a moment, about what Even said a few weeks ago about being alone in his mind. He thinks about now, getting his words out of his head and releasing them into the world. He thinks, Even was there to catch them, and that was fine. The world didn’t end.

(Neither did he.)

“Is that what you think I should do?” Isak says.

“I told you already,” Even says. “I think it’s entirely up to you. And I think I’ll be here no matter what you decide.”

Talking to other people. Feeling less alone.

(Somehow, in this moment, he almost feels brave enough to want to do those things.)

Isak exhales roughly. “God, where would I even start, though?” he says. Maybe that’s what makes it so hard. Telling people is a daunting idea when there’s so many people to tell.

(When there’s so fucking much to tell them about.)

“Coming out, you mean?” Even says.

Fuck, hearing it like that makes it even realer and scarier. “Or just telling people about - ” Isak inhales. “About us.”

Even grazes his thumb over Isak’s cheekbone. “You don’t have to, you know,” Even says. “This is about you, most importantly. I…” He pauses. “Everything else comes after.”

“But I want it to be about us,” Isak says. As confusing as everything else is right now, that at least feels like a solid enough truth.

“Yeah?” Even says quietly. The uncertainty in his voice makes Isak’s heart twist in his chest.

“Yeah,” Isak says. He, on the other hand, has never felt so certain of anything.

The look in Even’s eyes becomes almost unbearably gentle.

“Okay,” Even says. “Okay, then if you want to start… I’d say start small.”

“Small?”

“Start with someone you know for sure will be okay with it,” Even clarifies. “Someone you know will react well.”

_Jonas_ , is Isak’s first thought, but he shies from it almost immediately. Not because he thinks Jonas wouldn’t be okay with it or that he wouldn’t react well, but because that doesn’t feel like a small place to start at all.

Even must see something in Isak’s expression - panic, probably - because he gives him a reassuring smile. “What about my parents?” he suggests.

Isak feels his eyes widen. That sure as fuck doesn’t feel like a small place to start, either. “What?”

“They’ve known I’m not straight for years, and they’ve been amazing about it,” Even says. “They know it’s totally possible I could bring home someone other than a girl one day. And they’ve known you for years, too.”

“Yeah, but - ” Isak’s mind is reeling. “But won’t they think it’s weird that I, like, stole you from Sonja or something?”

It’s a stupid thing to blurt out. At this point his parents probably know Sonja and Even haven’t been together for a while. That’s the thing about Sonja, though. She was there for a part of Even’s life that Isak wasn’t. Surely, that’s bound to have an effect on some things.

(But whose fault is that?)

Even’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sure my parents know you can’t actually steal people.”

That’s beside the point, but Isak doesn’t have time to get sidetracked. “Or jesus, I don’t know, that this scrawny ass kid who’s been stealing their food and hospitality for over half his fucking life is suddenly shacking up with their only son? Isn’t that weird? That’s fucking weird, right?”

Even brushes a strand of hair behind Isak’s ear. For some reason, something that small is already enough to make him feel a little more at ease, just like that.

“You’re not just some scrawny ass kid to them,” Even says.

Isak’s breath rushes out of his lungs, at that. “No?”

Even’s expression is soft, now. So fucking soft.

“They love you, Isak,” he says.

Said like that, it sounds simple. Easy, almost.

(But the thought of anyone loving Isak has never been easy to wrap his head around.)

Isak takes in a deep breath.

“You really think it’ll be okay?” he says.

Even runs his thumb over Isak’s temple, a back and forth motion that makes Isak’s eyes flutter shut. Warm lips press kisses to his eyelids, slowly and carefully. Something in the pit of his gut trembles at the touch.

“I know it will,” Even says.

(As many doubts as Isak has, he has to admit that those words, when they come from Even, are the greatest comfort he might ever hope to have.)

-

**Dad**   
_Do you want to see your mom this weekend? She misses you._

-

They go to Even’s flat for dinner on a Friday night. Isak spends the whole tram ride there pretending he’s not at least halfway considering flinging himself out the window. Even slings a careful arm around him, casually friendly, and gives him the occasional reassuring squeeze. It takes pretty much all of Isak’s willpower not to lean into the touch. Now is not the time.

(It helps, though, more than Isak could ever admit, just to have Even next to him.)

The walk to Even’s flat after they get off the tram is more or less as peaceful as Isak could have asked for. Still, his mind is jumping around all over the place. He knows, logically, that Even’s parents are some of the safest people he could possibly trust with this information. The likelihood of them seeing him differently for this is so infinitesimally small it’s almost laughable.

(But not impossible, his treacherous thoughts remind him. They latch onto the minuscule probability like a leech.)

Before they enter the flat, Even turns to him. He looks down at him, eyes serious.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he says.

It’s an out, Isak knows. Even is giving him a choice the way he’s always done. And he could easily take it, if he wanted to. If he decided this was too much, he knows Even wouldn’t try to push him, not for a second.

But he’s come this far already, hasn’t he?

“Yeah,” Isak says. It’s the truth.

They go in.

-

It happens like this:

After Even’s mom brings out the desserts, and after they’ve taken their last bites -

Isak gives Even a look, and nods -

And Even turns to his parents, and he says, “Mom, dad, I have something to tell you.”

When they gesture for him to continue, Even says, “You know how I said there might be someone after I broke up with Sonja?”

When they say yes, Even casts one last glance at Isak before he says, “That someone is Isak.”

Nothing stops. Nothing freezes. There is no shock, and there is no silence. Not even for a single beat.

Instead, there’s this -

His dad’s stoic face breaks into a wide grin.

His mom says, “Oh, that’s wonderful, you two.”

And when Isak asks, a little overwhelmed by how underwhelming the response was, “Is that okay?”

Even’s mom beams and says, “Isak, you’re already part of this family. Of course it’s okay.”

Even turns to Isak and lets out a delighted laugh, eyes crinkling with happiness.

And something inside Isak’s heart loosens and warms and bursts, all at once. Something inside him feels endlessly relieved, and endlessly giddy, and endlessly, endlessly free.

(He doesn’t cry, but it’s a very near thing.)

-

**16 unread messages from: Mom**

-

Isak trudges into the kitchen the next morning. Eskild’s sitting at the table, typing something on his laptop.

“Good morning, grumpy child,” Eskild says brightly.

Isak flips him off lazily. “Morning,” he yawns. He’s only been up for a few minutes, but already he wants to crawl back into bed and stay there forever. Coffee sounds like a fucking fantastic idea right now.

“Surprised to see you around,” Eskild says, raising his eyebrows.

Isak snorts. “Why, because it’s so early?” he says, knowing full well it’s already past ten.

Eskild shrugs. “Nah,” Eskild says. “It just seems like you’re always either at Even’s place or holed up in your room with him, these days.”

Isak freezes with his hand on a cup.

When he looks back at Eskild, though, there’s no judgment in his eyes. Only careful appraisal.

Isak clears his throat. “Oh, yeah, he said he was busy this morning or something,” he says, trying for nonchalance. It doesn’t work; the words sound stilted anyway.

“Ah,” Eskild says. “I see.”

Isak sighs. “Is it a problem that I hang out with him?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Eskild says quickly. “It’s not any of my business, is it?”

“Uh huh,” Isak says.

“I’m just glad to see you with someone who makes you so happy,” Eskild says.

Now, that gives Isak pause. He looks at Eskild again, a little lost for words, and Eskild meets his gaze steadily, eyes almost uncharacteristically serious. Eskild so often gives him shit for so many things Isak forgets he can be like this, too. Calm and levelheaded. Careful with his words, careful not to push too hard or too far.

(There for Isak, when he needs him to be.)

“I guess he does,” Isak allows.

Eskild’s expression softens. “I know,” he says.

There’s a lot there - how Eskild knows what Isak’s happiness looks like, and what it looks like when he isn’t happy; how Eskild can see that Even coming back into his life has made some type of difference; how Eskild can see just how significant that difference is - and Isak doesn’t know how to process it. So he doesn’t try. He puts the cup in his hands down and takes in a shaky breath.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

He half-expects Eskild to be a jerk about it. _Why yes, of course you can, you can come to your guru for anything._ Eskild doesn’t do anything but lean back in his chair and nod.

Isak walks over to the table. He sits down. He stares down at his hands.

“If you’re a boy who likes a boy,” Isak says, “does that mean you’re gay?”

He looks up at Eskild. There’s no surprise on his face. Just thoughtfulness.

“Hm,” Eskild says. “Not necessarily. You could be bi, or pan, or a number of things, honestly.”

Isak figured Eskild would say something like that. The thing is, none of those other things seem to fit, either. He doesn’t know how to make words like that fit someone like him. He doesn’t know how to think of himself in a way he’s tried to push away for half his life, now that he has a reason to.

Eskild must sense some of his hesitation, because he reaches out to put a tentative hand on Isak’s arm. “If you’re trying to figure out something like that…” He clears his throat. “You know you can take your time with it, right?”

(Theoretically, Isak knows the answer to that question is yes, but god, he’s just so damn tired of not knowing things when the whole world seems to expect him to.)

“Why do people care so much about labels, anyway?” Isak says, a little savagely. “They’re just words. Seems like a big deal over nothing. Who actually gives a shit what you identify as?”

It’s not a fair thing to say. He knows it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. The look Eskild gives him after he says them makes him feel that even more keenly.

“You know,” Eskild says, “you don’t have to use labels if you don’t want to. For a lot of people, though, labels give you comfort. They give you strength. They help things make _sense_. That’s not nothing.”

It’s not a chastisement, but his voice is firm, and Isak can tell he’s speaking from years of experience he has no real conception of. Eskild’s always seemed like the kind of person who was born knowing exactly who he was. But of course he isn’t.

(No one is.)

“And when the world wants you to be invisible,” Eskild says, “when the whole world wants nothing more than for you to pretend you don’t exist, labels let you look it in the eye and say, I’m here. I exist. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s calm, very calm. He holds Isak’s gaze for a long time.

“That’s not nothing,” Eskild says.

Isak swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. “I’m… I…”

Something in Eskild’s gaze softens, then. “You don’t have to apologize, Isak.” He reaches over again and gives his hand a brief squeeze. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re nothing. That’s all.”

Isak stares at him for that, startled. Eskild’s smiling, a gentle upward curve of his lips.

(And shit, when he says it like that, what choice does Isak have but to believe him?)

There’s a knock on the door. Isak jumps in his seat.

“Well, geez,” Eskild says. The smile on his face turns sly. “I wonder who that could be?”

Isak rolls his eyes, ignoring the warmth flooding his cheeks. “Shut up,” he says.

He stands up to get the door. As he walks to the doorway, Eskild says, “Wait, Isak.”

Isak turns back to him and raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“I hope you can figure things out soon,” Eskild says.

It’s a small sentence.

(But god, it means so much more to Isak than he could ever say.)

“Thanks, Eskild,” Isak says. It’s such an inadequate response. It’s all he has.

Eskild waves his hand. “Now go get your boy. He’s waiting.”

Isak feels his insides warm, at that. _His boy_. It’s nicer to hear something like that than he imagined.

He turns away obligingly and makes his way to the front door. Sure enough, Even’s there, waiting.

“Hey,” he says.

Isak steps forward and presses a light kiss to Even’s mouth. It’s brief, no longer than a second, but when he pulls away, Even’s eyes are wide.

Isak can’t help but smile in response. “Hey,” he says.

Even’s expression melts into a pleased grin. “How are you today?”

Isak takes hold of his hand and leads him to his room. “Good, now that you’re here,” he says.

(Telling the truth is becoming easier by the day.)

-

“So,” Isak says.

“So,” Even echoes.

His head is resting on Even’s lap, and Even has his fingers tangled in his hair, unmoving. This is a nice vantage point, Isak decides. Even’s bent over him and looking at him intently, and it’s easy to lose himself in the feeling of Even’s gaze when it’s this close.

“So you dated Sonja for almost four years,” Isak says.

“Mm,” Even says. “Jealous?”

He says it teasingly, and Isak knows he should probably answer it in kind. Still, “jealous” is a weird word to think about, so naturally that’s what he does. He stops to think about it.

_Jealousy_ . What would that even look like? Wishing he had what Sonja had? He’d have to be resentful about it, probably. He’d have to want that - whatever _that_ entails - more than he wanted anything else. Or at least more than he wanted most things.

That’s kind of difficult to sort out. Isak’s never really thought of himself as the kind of person who wants things, or at least the kind of person who should want things. Still, he supposes he’s only human, which must mean he wants _some_ things. This seems as likely a thing to want as any.

Does he, though? Does he want what Even and Sonja used to have? Does he hate the fact that he doesn’t?

Once, he might have. He might have wished _he_ was the one with the healthy, happy four year relationship, back when that kind of thing seemed like yet another impossibility on the long list of things he could never have.

No matter how much he might have wished for it, though, he knows he’s always wanted Even’s happiness more. That, at least, feels certain.

(Even when most other things don’t.)

And what about now?

He doesn’t have what Sonja used to have, that’s true. What he has is something entirely different.

And honestly, he thinks he’s okay with that.

He just hopes it makes Even happy, too. That’s what matters most.

(That’s what’s always mattered most.)

“Nah,” Isak says. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah,” Even says.

“Are you sad that you’re not together anymore?” Isak asks.

Even breathes out a laugh. “Would I be a bad person if I said, not really?”

Isak’s heart kicks in his chest, a pleasant thrill. “No,” he says. “Only you can feel what you feel.”

Even raises his eyebrows, the picture of mild surprise. “You think so?”

Isak shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. To him, the statement just sounds like a no-brainer. “But even so. She was important to you once, and she made you happy. I can’t begrudge that. I can’t be jealous of a past that I can’t change.”

(He can’t be jealous of a past he wasn’t there for.)

“Why’d you bring her up, then?” Even says.

(Because he was thinking of all the years of Even’s life he’s missed.)

“Because I was thinking about history,” Isak says. “And all the choices we’ve made that brought us here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Isak says. “Like, it all feels so specific, does that make sense? There’s thousands and millions of choices that we’ve made in our lifetimes, all of them splitting off into these different outcomes and possibilities. The infinity of the universes, you know? For every choice we’ve ever made, there’s a universe out there where we chose differently. If one of us had said something differently or done something differently, or, I don’t know, dated a different person, even, that would become another universe, and in that universe, maybe we’d be someplace different.”

Even’s fingers tighten in his hair. “Huh.”

His silences are so easy to read sometimes. “You don’t like that thought?” Isak says.

Even purses his lips. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not? It’s so interesting to think about.”

“You would say that,” Even says. “Huge nerd that you are.”

Isak scoffs. “Look who’s talking.”

Even grins briefly, his grip on Isak’s hair relaxing. The smile fades away soon enough.

“I don’t know,” Even says. “I guess I just don’t want to think about a universe where things _are_ different.”

Isak nods, taking that into consideration. “That’s fair.”

A ghost of a smile returns to the corner of Even’s mouth. “You don’t agree?”

“No,” Isak says. “Thinking about it just makes me feel lucky I’m in this one.”

Even doesn’t say anything to that. He just smiles a little wider.

“And anyway,” Isak says. “An infinity of universes just means there’s an infinite number of Isaks and Evens who’re together.”

“You really think we’d find each other in that many universes?” Even says.

He sounds doubtful. Almost scared. Isak’s not quite sure what to make of that.

“Yeah,” Isak says. “I think sooner or later, we would.”

Even stares at him for a long moment.

“What does that have to do with Sonja?” he says.

Isak had almost forgotten that’s where this conversation started. He closes his eyes.

“God, I don’t know,” he says. “I guess I was just thinking about the fact that we’ve been with different people in our lives before this point, and how that’s okay. How that doesn’t make this any less important. And how this doesn’t make our pasts less important, either. It’s not better, it’s not worse. It’s just how it turned out. And it’s what feels right.”

So many goddamn words. He almost wants to tell himself to shut the fuck up. Just enjoy this moment, this time together. Stop ruining it with his stupid rambling thoughts.

Fingertips dance lightly across his forehead, the line of his nose, down to his mouth. The pad of Even’s thumb presses gently against his lips. Isak’s eyes flutter open, and Even’s smiling softly down at him.

“Jesus,” Even says. “Who knew you had such deep thoughts in that pretty head of yours?”

Isak rolls his eyes, ignoring the way his chest suddenly feels a size too small for his swelling heart. “Who’re you calling pretty?” he says. “I’ll fight you.”

Even grins. “So you’ve been with other people before, then? Isak, I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. Don’t you trust me?”

“Nothing that was that big of a deal,” Isak says defensively. “But I can tell you about it now, if you’re curious.”

Even twists a finger around a curl of Isak’s hair absently. “Only if you want to.”

(That’s not exactly a fair statement. He wants to talk to Even about pretty much everything.)

“Well, okay,” Isak says. “I mean, I’ve hooked up with a lot of girls. I dated a few girls too? There was this one girl Sara I was with for a while. She was pretty, I guess.”

“You guess?” Even says, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Isak says. “It didn’t - I just didn’t feel anything, you know? Not like this. I didn’t even know it could feel like this.”

The look in Even’s eyes is as soft as the morning light. “Yeah?”

Isak exhales. After everything, that still feels like a huge thing to admit out loud. “I guess I just thought I wasn’t a romance kind of person.”

“Hm,” Even says. “If you’re not, we have a serious problem, then.”

“What do you mean?”

Even gently claps a hand to the side of Isak’s face.

“Isak,” Even says dramatically. “Did you know I’ve been trying to romance you this _whole time_?”

Isak bursts into helpless laughter. “Holy fuck, you’re such an idiot,” he says.

Even smiles. “And yet,” he says, fingers threading through Isak’s hair. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah,” Isak sighs. “I guess I am.”

Even’s smile grows fond. “So what about guys?”

Wow. There’s a million dollar question if ever he heard one.

“What about them?” Isak says.

“Have you ever felt anything for guys?” Even says. No pressure. Not a single expectation. Just genuine curiosity in his words.

If anyone else asked him that question, he probably wouldn’t even bother answering. He’d just laugh it off. Just deny it right off the bat.

But this is Even, and if there’s anyone in the world Isak can trust with his answers, it has to be him.

(It has to be.)

“I think so,” he says.

Even nods, taking it in stride. Isak’s kind of glad for it, though. As much as his heart feels like it’s about to fall out of his chest right now, he thinks he’d rather have nonchalance over having to actually linger on what he just said.

“Who?” Even says. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

The answer comes more easily to mind than he thought it would.

“Jonas, once,” he says.

It’s the first time he’s ever admitted that out loud.

Even laughs, a reaction Isak didn’t quite expect.

Isak frowns. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Even says. “It’s just - you _so_ have a thing for best friends.”

“Oh my god,” Isak says. Put like that, it does sound kind of pathetically hilarious. Crushing on the guys he’d do basically anything for when they’ve had steady girlfriends for years. Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of loser he is. “Fuck, I do, don’t I?”

“I can’t even blame you,” Even says. “His eyebrows are fucking magnificent.”

“Yeah, well,” Isak says. “I liked him for his personality, or something.”

“And his great ass,” Even says, wiggling his eyebrows.

Isak groans. “Oh god, no.”

“No, he doesn’t have a great ass?” Even says. “Or no, you just don’t want to admit it?”

“ _No_.”

“Come on, Isak. Don’t hold back now. You totally think he has a nice butt.”

“Fuck,” Isak says, “who even _are_ you?”

“Did you like the butt, Isak?” Even pauses dramatically. “Did you want... to _touch_ the butt?”

“Oh my god, _fine_ ,” Isak says, hiding his face with his hands. Anything to stop this agony. “Yes, he has a decent ass, jesus christ. You’re so fucking weird.”

Even lets out a delighted laugh. “You’re just predictable.”

Well. Isak has nothing to say to that. Even is pretty much one of the only people in the world Isak actually believes when he says something like that.

“Still,” Isak says. “That’s different from this.”

“Yeah?” Even says. “How so?”

Isak reaches up and takes hold of Even’s hand. Slowly, he brings Even’s fingers to his mouth. He presses a kiss to each knuckle. And he watches Even through it all. Watches the way his eyes widen, the way his mouth falls slightly open. The way the movement of his chest halts, just for a moment but impossible to miss.

“You like me back,” Isak says.

Awe. That’s the look in Even’s eyes right now. Shameless awe.

“I do,” he says. “I really, really do.”

-

**Isak Valtersen**   
_So you know what we haven’t done in a long time_

**Jonas Vasquez**   
_Been anything but huge nerds?_ _  
_ _That mostly applies to you though so actually I don’t know_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Ha ha, fuck you_   
_I meant kebabs_   
_You want to get kebabs with me?_ _  
Your favorite person in the world_

**Jonas Vasquez**   
_Well I guess I can’t say no to kebabs_   
_But I’m only in it for the food_ _  
Definitely not you_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Wow_ _  
_ _Thanks, you bastard_

**Jonas Vasquez**   
_You’re welcome asshole_

-

They bring their food to a nearby bench that overlooks the city. Isak didn’t say he wanted to meet for a particular reason, but Jonas must be able to sense there’s a reason anyway, because for the most part he takes lead of the conversation. It’s his way of getting Isak comfortable, probably. Of giving him the time and space he needs to collect his thoughts.

(Isak likes his way.)

“I think we give Magnus way too much shit,” Jonas is saying. “The guy’s just trying his best, you know? We all are.”

“You mean you think _I_ give Magnus way too much shit,” Isak says.

Jonas shrugs. “I mean, not to name names.”

“It’s just so much fun to be an ass to him, though,” Isak says. “He takes it in stride. Doesn’t take it personally.”

(It’s more than can be said for himself.)

“Yeah, I don’t think he minds,” Jonas says. “He’s a good guy, Magnus. Kind of blissfully ignorant, but, like, open-minded, too? I have no idea how that works, but.”

“Open-minded how?”

“Like…” Jonas pauses, furrowing his brow in thought. “Hm, the other day a guy hit on him at a party, and you’d think he’d be a total asshole about it, right? He was a good sport about it, though. Bitched a little about how it’s so unfair he’s not as attractive to girls, sure. But he didn’t make fun of the guy or anything, and he was pretty chill about it. I mean, as chill as Magnus can be about anything, but, like, I think they exchanged numbers so they could talk as friends? Which I thought was pretty cool.”

“Man,” Isak says, fighting down his pounding heart, “what a wild party.”

“You would have enjoyed it, I think,” Jonas says. He’s probably right. He is about most things, when it comes to Isak.

“I’m sorry I missed it, then,” Isak says.

“Yeah.” Jonas chews down a mouthful of kebab. “We’ve missed having you around, man.”

His tone is exceedingly nonchalant, but knowing Jonas, that’s exactly how he feels about it. He’s not trying to downplay it or anything. It’s just a fact.

This is it, though. This is the opening Isak needs.

His heart is beating so fast.

He looks down at his hands. If his brain could calm down enough for words, just for a moment. A moment is all he needs.

He can see, out of the corner of his eye, Jonas sneaking a sidelong glance at him. He doesn’t say anything more.

(Isak doesn’t deserve a friend like him.)

“Uh…” Isak takes in a deep breath. “Can I tell you something?”

He looks over at Jonas. Jonas nods silently, endlessly patient.

“It’s about why I haven’t been hanging out with you guys so much,” Isak says, but though he intends to continue after that, when he tries to say more he finds he can’t. The words feel trapped in his lungs.

“You know that’s okay, right?” Jonas says.

The response is more of a relief than Isak anticipated. That’s right, this is a conversation. He doesn’t actually have to carry it on his own.

“God, I feel like such a shitty friend, though,” Isak says.

(A selfish friend.)

“You shouldn’t.” Jonas looks down at the ground. “I guess I was wondering about that, though.”

Isak swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jonas says. “I was wondering if I’d done something to piss you off, actually.”

The statement is so far from the truth it pulls a bewildered laugh out of Isak. “What?”

Jonas glances over at Isak. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“No,” Isak says firmly. “No, you could never - I’d tell you if you did.”

Jonas raises his eyebrows. “Would you?”

That gives Isak some pause. It’s not exactly a question he can argue against.

In the end, he doesn’t try. He just shakes his head.

“No, you didn’t do anything,” Isak says. “I just - fuck, it’s such a stupid reason.”

Jonas doesn’t answer. Letting Isak take his own pace, as he always does.

“So you know I’ve had a fuckton of shit going on,” Isak says. “Family stuff, and my mom, and… Well. Yeah. You know. But that’s not…”

Deep breaths, he reminds himself.

(He has all the time in the world.)

“I’m seeing someone,” Isak says.

Immediately, Jonas breaks into a grin. “Hey, congrats, bro,” he says, no judgment in his voice, no _you’ve been ditching us for a girl?_ It’s so much more than Isak deserves. “Do I get to know who?”

Here they are, now. Isak can still turn back if he wanted. He could laugh it off as a joke. Or he could make up the name of some random girl. He could lie again. So, so easily.

(Then again, at this point, would it be?)

“It’s Even,” Isak says.

“Oh,” Jonas says, and he doesn’t pause over it, he doesn’t look surprised. He just nods thoughtfully. It’s relieving. Immensely, dizzyingly so. Isak feels weak in the knees even though he’s sitting down. “Your old friend in the third year, right? Yeah, he’s pretty good-looking, isn’t he?”

Isak nearly chokes on his kebab. “Uh - ”

Jonas shrugs. “Just stating facts.”

Isak lets out a laugh. It’s a little louder than it should be, but he doesn’t think Jonas minds. “Well,” he says. “I guess he is, yeah.”

Jonas flashes him a smile. “I’m happy for you, Isak,” he says. “I really am.”

Isak grins back, briefly.

“But…” Isak breathes in, trying to quell the tingling in his chest. “I really am sorry. It wasn’t right of me to… to distance myself from you guys, just because of one person. I don’t want you guys to think you don’t matter to me.”

“I know,” Jonas says. His casual tone is reassuring, somehow. “But it makes sense, I think? You haven’t seen Even in so long. Of course you’d want to spend as much time as you can with him.”

Put like that, it’s hard to dispute.

“Still,” Isak says. “Like you said. He’s just some guy.”

Jonas hums tunelessly. “I guess I did say that, didn’t I? I don’t know, though. I still think it’s okay for you to take the time you need.”

There’s silence, for a moment, as Isak turns those words over in his head. It sounds so easy, when Jonas says it. It feels easy.

(Maybe it is. Maybe it’s been that way this whole damn time.)

“Thanks,” Isak says. That feels easy, too.

Jonas nods. “Of course, man.” He brightens. “Wait, your boy is legal, right? Shit, now you really don’t have an excuse not to have beer.”

Isak snorts out an incredulous laugh. It feels good.

(It really does.)

-

**Dad**   
_She misses you, you know._

-

Isak hasn’t had the boys over to his flat in a while, but he figures a pre-game is the least he owes them at this point. They’re circled around the table in the kitchen, stores of alcohol piled in the middle, and they’re talking and joking about nothing in particular. He didn’t realize it, but fuck, he missed this too. Missed feeling like he actually has a place among this group of boys.

He squeezes his hand around a can of his favorite beer, debating with himself how he should bring up what he wants to bring up. He could try to steer the conversation subtly in the direction he needs it to go. Or he could drop the bombshell with no warning. Neither of those options seem particularly appealing.

“Isak?” Magnus says.

He blinks. “What?” he says.

“I was just asking how life’s going for you, but you’re spacey as fuck,” Magnus says. “Drunk already?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mahdi says with a laugh. “This white boy’s a fucking lightweight.”

“Oh, fuck you guys,” Isak says. He takes a long swig of his beer out of sheer spite.

“Come on, give him a break,” Jonas says. Goodwill flares up in Isak’s heart for him. “He’s clearly philosophizing about some _really important shit_.”

The goodwill disappears as quickly as it came. He holds up his middle finger to the cackling laughter ringing around the group.

“But you haven’t answered the question, dude,” Magnus says. “How’s life in Isak world?”

Isak sips at his beer. “What the fuck is Isak world?”

“Dude, that sounds like a place I’d wanna go,” Jonas says. “A planet full of snapbacks and weed. What a dream.”

“I don’t know,” Mahdi says, squinting at Isak thoughtfully. “It sounds like it’d be a pretty depressing place to be. I can’t imagine the sun exists in Isak World, he’s too grumpy for that.”

“What the fuck is even happening right now,” Isak says.

“Yeah, for once I agree,” Magnus says, tilting his bottle in Isak’s direction. “Let the man speak about his life!”

Mahdi and Jonas, for once, don’t say anything in response. Everyone just looks at him, and Isak is keenly aware that he can’t stall anymore. This was the whole point of having this pre-game, right? So either he takes this chance when it’s practically been handed to him, or he’ll have to make an entirely new chance later.

(Or he just won’t say anything at all.)

Jonas raises his eyebrows. The look in his eyes is easy enough to read - _You can do this._

Small gesture, but it works, amazingly enough. The tightness in his chest loosens just enough for the words he needs to come to mind.

Isak inhales deeply. He knocks back the rest of his beer, for courage, and swallows.

“So you know how you guys have been on my ass for being a flaky friend?” he says.

“Uh, yeah?” Mahdi says, raising his eyebrows. “That just goes without saying.”

He’s done this before. Multiple times, actually. And he knows all probabilities point to them being chill with it. But for some reason, it doesn’t get any easier.

(It’s the fucking probabilities. Nothing is ever a guarantee, and his stupid brain won’t ever let him forget that.

It makes sense, though, in some sick twisted way. After everything that he’s been through, it makes sense.)

“So,” Isak says, feeling vaguely like he’s digging himself further into his own grave, “I’m seeing someone.”

“You’ve been ditching us for a _girl_ ?” Magnus says immediately. “You, fucking master of hook-ups and one night stands, have a _girlfriend_? What the fuck?”

“Uh…” For a brief moment, panic overtakes his brain. He can’t even remind himself that he can turn back now, because that thought is no longer a relief. If he leaves it like this, that’s just another lie he’ll have to undo in the future.

Jonas must sense that he’s freaking out, because he gives him a smile. It’s barely visible on the corner of his mouth, but it’s enough. It grounds him.

No matter what happens, he already has people who support him.

Isak clears his throat. “It’s not a girl,” he says.

Silence. Heart pounding silence.

If someone doesn’t say something right now, he’s going to throw up over all of them.

“Wait,” Magnus says. “What the fuck?”

Mahdi tsks. “Don’t be rude, bro,” he says. “What’s his name?”

“Even,” Isak says, because he’s not sure he’s really capable of saying more than a word at a time right now.

“So is he your boyfriend, then?” Mahdi asks.

The sheer relief that he hasn’t fucking passed out yet short-circuits his ability to think properly. “No,” Isak says, and regrets it as soon as he does. It’s possibly the most ridiculous thing he could have answered with.

“I’m so fucking confused,” Magnus says.

“So who is he, then?” Jonas says. Giving him a chance to think this through, presumably.

But this is the thing. _Boyfriend_ really doesn’t seem like the right word to describe Even. Neither does _best friend_ , really. Those words don’t feel adequate enough to describe all that he feels about Even, mostly because neither of them capture the full picture. He’s not someone Isak just hooks up with every once in a while. He’s not someone Isak _doesn’t_ hook up with.

Even is stability, a constant presence.

Even is a new thrill, the desire for the warmth of his touch burning brightly in Isak’s heart.

Even is so many things, an infinity of them. Even is one thing, the most important thing that encompasses all else. Even is -

He’s -

“He’s my person,” Isak says.

(It’s the only word he can think of that even comes close to feeling right.)

Magnus’s eyes bug out of his head. “Wow,” he says. “Wow, that’s really gay.”

Mahdi groans. “Dude, what?” he says. “We don’t even know if that’s how Isak identifies.”

“I mean, Isak is clearly in love with a dude,” Magnus says. “What else could he be?”

“I don’t know, bisexual? Pansexual?” Mahdi throws up a hand, giving Magnus his signature _What’s wrong with you?_ look. “There’s a world of options out there, man.”

“What the fuck do those words even _mean_?”

The conversation quickly devolves into bickering from there, but honestly Isak couldn’t give less of a fuck. Jonas meets his eyes and grins, like he knows exactly what he’s feeling right now. And fuck, maybe he does. Maybe Isak is so obvious about what he feels the whole damn world can tell.

And maybe that just doesn’t matter.

-

“I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to tell us about Even,” Jonas says later, as they’re getting ready to leave. “Are we ever going to get to meet him?”

“Dude, wait, yeah,” Magnus says. “We’ve gotta meet the guy who stole your cynical little heart.”

“That’d be so chill,” Mahdi says, bursting into a wide grin.

“Maybe someday,” Isak says.

(It doesn’t feel like a lie.)

-

Isak hasn’t seen Even in a few days, since they figured it’d be best if Isak handled the Friday pre-game on his own. It’s ridiculous, but he already misses him, the feeling of it tingling unpleasantly in his fingertips. It hurts like someone reached into his chest and carved out a part of himself. He’s well-aware how melodramatic that sounds, but that’s honest to god what it feels like. A dull and persistent ache in his chest.

(It’s even worse because he should be used to what it feels like not to have Even by his side. He literally had four fucking years to get used to it. Yet here he is, pining like a lovesick asshole. Sometimes he amazes even himself with how stupid he can be.)

He wakes up earlier than he usually does Saturday morning, and now the missing is a sharp hunger. He’s too used to waking up to Even now, he thinks. Even had made a joke a little while ago about how he was getting more used to Isak’s bed than he was to his own, but in this moment Isak feels the truth of that statement viscerally. Because now that he has the chance to have Even in his bed, why would he ever want to let it go?

(If he doesn’t see Even soon, his heart might actually explode.)

All things considered, it is a pretty regular occurrence for them to spend Friday night apart. Practically every week, actually. Isak has the vague impression Even likes to have Saturday mornings to himself, but he’s not sure why. Even’s never offered a reason. Isak figures it’s probably just a weird quirk of his, some established facet of his routine he still hasn’t quite yet figured out how to fit Isak into.

(If that’s the case, Isak can’t exactly blame him.)

If Isak misses Even this much, though, maybe it’s not too much to assume Even is, too.

(And maybe, just for once in his life, Isak doesn’t have to feel so bad about wanting things.)

He’s out of bed in an instant, searching for his jeans and a clean shirt. If he stops to think about this, even for a second, he’s not going to do it.

He’s on the tram when he starts to second-guess himself, because of course he could only fend off that impulse for so long. Maybe Even needs to be left alone for a while. Maybe he’s actually doing something important.

(Maybe he just doesn’t want to see Isak.)

“What the fuck are you doing, Isak?” he mutters, mostly so he can get the stupid words out of his head. He’s grateful no one’s around him. Otherwise they might think he’s a total nutjob, talking shit to himself.

Seriously, though. At the least, he could have sent a warning text.

Then again, it’s not too late for that. It’s either that or turn back, and hell, Isak’s already half on his way. Is he really going to waste his own time like that? He pulls out his phone.

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Hey I decided to come over this morning to surprise you_   
_Turns out I’m uh kinda bad at surprises_ _  
Is it chill if I come over anyway?_

A minute passes. Another. And more.

By the time he gets off the tram, he still hasn’t gotten a response back. He’s trying not to feel too twitchy about it, but Even usually answers within a few minutes, so this is definitely new. He does his best not to let his mind wander down paths it shouldn’t go - how many times, after all, has Even reassured him that everything about where they are is mutual? - but it’s his thoughts he’s fighting, and that’s a battle he’s always losing.

“Fuck,” Isak whispers. He’s at Even’s door, now. He could still turn back. He could always turn back.

Maybe a different week, he would have. This week, there were so many times he could have turned back, so many things that were a thousand times scarier than knocking on his best friend’s door. He didn’t turn back then. Maybe he shouldn’t do it now.

He takes in a breath and knocks on the door.

Even’s mom answers it. It’s not exactly a surprise, considering the dozens of scenarios Isak’s helpful brain conjured up in the last however long it took to get here to explain why his dumb idea was going to lead to something catastrophic, but it is a bit of a disappointment.

“Oh, hi, Isak,” she says, surprised but pleased. “Are you here for Even?”

Kind of embarrassing when an adult sees through Isak that easily. “Hi,” he says, awkwardly. “Would it be rude of me to say yes?”

She laughs. “Of course not,” she says, waving him in. “That’s what you’ve always said. Just because you’re dating my son, now…”

God, that’s still so weird to hear out loud. But she’s being casual about it, so he supposes he should, too.

“Sorry I didn’t warn you,” Isak says. “I figured I’d surprise him, but, uh… I guess he’s not home.”

She reaches up to ruffle at his hair fondly. “What a romantic,” she says. “You can wait for him, if you want. He’s having his appointment, but he should be back soon. Coffee?”

“Appointment?” Isak says, frowning. “Is he sick or something?”

She moves into the kitchen, presumably to pour the cup of coffee Isak didn’t ask for but still wants. What is it about this family and knowing what he wants without having to hear it?

“Nothing he hasn’t dealt with for years,” she says. “But you’d know about that, right?”

“Uh,” he says eloquently.

Her head pops back into the room. “Cream or sugar?”

“Both, please,” he says, before he can think about everything that came before that question too hard.

Once she’s left him alone on the living room couch, though, he can’t stop the impulse. _Nothing he hasn’t dealt with for years._ It’s a ridiculously enigmatic statement, or at least to him, it is. He’s not sure why Even’s mom thought that would sound reassuring. Not sure why she thought he’d know what she’s talking about. Not sure at all what he’s missing.

(But if they’re talking about things they’ve been dealing with for years, that’s certainly something he’s used to.)

Is this worth worrying about? She seemed pretty nonchalant about it. And if Even hasn’t said anything about it, whatever _it_ is, maybe it is something to be nonchalant about. Isak isn’t really in the habit of pushing, anyway. There’s a lot of things he could have pushed about, and hasn’t. The full truth of why Even moved back to Oslo. The reason why he’s still in high school when he should have graduated last spring.

(This, now, apparently.)

He doesn’t know if he has the right to push. He doesn’t know that he wants to push. After all, Even’s spent over half their lives being careful to give him the space he needs. The least he can do for him is the same.

And regardless, whatever it is, Even has a good reason for not saying anything. Isak is sure of it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. _Even_ , is his first thought.

It’s not Even.

**Dad**   
_Isak, I know you’ve been reading my messages, even if you don’t answer them. I’m sorry if I’ve done something to upset you, but I wish you wouldn’t take it out on your mother, too._ _  
_ _I wanted to tell you this over the phone, at least, but maybe this way you’ll know. She’s refusing to see her psychiatrist. I think it would help if you visited her soon. Please think about it._

Isak stares at his phone screen until it goes dark.

He tries to swallow.

He can’t.

He tries to breathe.

He can’t.

He tries to do anything but shake.

(He can’t.)

Typical, though. Fucking typical. He can run away from his problems and avoid them and push them away and pretend he’s above all of it, pretend it’s not his responsibility anymore, but all it takes is a handful of words from his father to remind him he isn’t _shit_. God, the man is fucking good at it, isn’t he? Fucking expert in guilt trips.

It’s not going to work, though, not this time. Not this time, because this _isn’t_ his responsibility. His mother is a grown ass adult. She can make her own fucking decisions. It’s not his fault if those choices don’t work out. He’s got no obligation, not a single goddamn one, to come running back the second something goes wrong.

(He doesn’t. He doesn’t. He _doesn’t_.)

“Isak?”

Isak jumps, half-startled out of his own skin. It takes him a bit to figure out the source of the word, but once he does he can’t help but relax a little, even if he can’t all the way. It’s Even, thumbs stuck in his pockets and looking at him with concern Isak is sure he doesn’t deserve.

“Hey,” Isak says. Fuck, his voice sounds wrecked even to his own ears. He takes a sip of the coffee in his hands, desperate to calm down.

“Hey,” Even says, walking over and taking his seat next to Isak. “Sorry I didn’t get your text earlier. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Isak says with a short nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Even wraps a careful arm around his shoulders. “Are you sure? You look a little - ”

Isak surges forward and presses his mouth against Even’s. Even lets out a surprised gasp against his lips, and Isak uses that. He grips Even’s shirt and pulls him closer, opens his mouth and licks a stripe across Even’s lower lip, and now that they’re kissing he can pretend to forget why he kissed Even in the first place. It’s easy, way easier than it should be, and that’s down to how fucking _good_ it feels. It’s been days since the last time they saw each other, and kissing Even now feels like taking his first breath after spending his whole life drowning underwater. Life-saving, almost, if kisses could save lives.

(But it’s just pretending. That’s all he’s good at. That’s all he’s ever been good at.)

Even breaks away first, the force of his breathing a staccato rhythm against Isak’s mouth.

“Isak?” he says.

Immediately the guilt rises up in Isak’s chest, swallowing his previous panic whole.

“Sorry for interrupting you,” Isak mumbles. “I missed you.”

Even reaches up to cup his face with his long fingers. “It’s okay,” he says. “I missed you too.”

(It would be the sweetest relief to hear a statement like that if Isak felt he deserved it at all.)

“How was your morning?” Isak says, pulling away.

Even watches him as he leans back on the couch. There’s something measured about his gaze. Something careful.

“Fine,” he says. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

Isak swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Should have given you better warning.”

(He should have done a lot of things.)

“Oh, that wasn’t a complaint,” Even says. “I’m glad you’re here.” He’s smiling now, so Isak knows his words are real.

“These last few days have been a son of a bitch,” Isak says.

“Amen,” Even says emphatically. His smile grows soft. “How’ve you been? Is everything all right with you?”

Isak thinks, briefly, of the message in his pocket. Thinking about it makes the guilt worse, makes it swell in his lungs and burn like flames in his gut. But there’s not a single thing he can do about it, right? He’s been away from home for too long. His mom probably hates him. His dad almost certainly does. All he can do is feel bad about it.

So he does what he’s always done when it comes to his family.

He stops thinking about it.

“Yeah,” Isak says, smiling as widely as he can. “I’m good.”

-

At some point, they move to Even’s room. Even’s procured a joint from seemingly nowhere, and now they’re on their backs, letting the smoke burning in their lungs steady the room around them. An hour ago, Isak would have felt weird about smoking in the same house as Even’s mom. Right now, he doesn’t. Right now he doesn’t feel weird about anything.

“I should tell you something,” Isak says. His head is turned toward Even, and he’s staring at him. Even is too pretty to look away from.

Even exhales, smoke billowing through his nostrils. “What’s that?”

_My mom_ , he thinks.

Even doesn’t need to know.

No one does.

“You know the pre-game last night?” Isak says instead.

“Oh yeah,” Even says. He grins at the ceiling. This is when he’s at his prettiest, when he’s smiling like he’ll burst if he doesn’t. “How’d that go?”

“Chill,” Isak says. “I felt pretty stupid, though.”

“Why?” Even’s grin turns into a frown. “Why’d you feel stupid? You’re the smartest person in the world.”

Isak ignores this blatant lie. Even really is too biased. “They asked me if you were my boyfriend,” Isak says. “And you know what I said?”

“What?”

“I said you were my person,” Isak says. He lets out a laugh. “Isn’t that the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard?”

He half expects Even to burst out laughing too, but he doesn’t. He turns his head toward Isak and smiles.

“No,” Even says. “I think it makes sense.”

Isak stares at him. “Yeah?”

Even’s eyes are tender, so tender it almost hurts Isak’s heart to look into them. But looking away would hurt more, so he doesn’t. Like this, it’s easy to forget how complicated life and the world around them is, because like this it’s breathtakingly simple. Like this, it’s just Even. Just him. Him and his beautiful smile. Him and his beautiful everything.

Him.

Even reaches over and hooks his fingers through Isak’s, easy as anything.

“You’re my person, too,” Even says.

When Even says it, it doesn’t sound dumb at all. It just sounds right. It feels so right, makes sense on such a visceral level, Isak doesn’t know what to say. So he doesn’t. Instead, he lies in the silence with his hand in Even’s, and he stares. He stares until he’s memorized the color of Even’s eyes, their clarity and their brightness. He stares until all the tension bleeds out of his body and his veins and his heartbeat, until he feels nothing but steady and still inside himself. He stares and he stares, and for a long moment it almost feels like he could find the whole universe in Even’s gaze if he looked hard enough.

Right now, nothing seems impossible.

-

**Isak Valtersen**   
_All right asshole when the hell did you steal my phone_

**Even the Person**   
_What, you don’t like the name change?_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_… The name change can stay_ _  
_ _I just want to know what else you’ve done_

**Even the Person**   
_I didn’t do anything else_ _  
_ _Cross my heart and hope to die_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Jesus_ _  
_ _Guess I have no choice but to trust you then_

**Even the Person**   
_Guess not_   
_You do though right?_ _  
You trust me?_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Yeah I guess so_

**Even the Person**   
_You guess??_ _  
_ _Geez so wish-washy_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Kidding_   
_I trust you_ _  
Forever and always_

**Even the Person**   
_Oh_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Do you believe me?_

**Even the Person**   
_Guess I have no choice_

**Isak Valtersen**   
_Wow, okay_

**Even the Person**   
_Yeah_ _  
_ _I believe you_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So why don’t you just tell him now?_ the voice in the back of his head says.
> 
> A few weeks ago, he knew the answer to that question very well. He’s had lots of experience making up excuses to himself, after all.
> 
> Now, though, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, except for the fact that it’s just too damn hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief disclaimer that the discussions of therapy in this chapter are based entirely on my own personal experiences and are not meant to be representative of everyone's experiences with it as a whole.

_iii._

Even shouldn’t have put it off for this long.

It’s a thought he’s had frequently for a few weeks now, mostly in passing before he forces himself to think about something else, but now it’s hitting him hard, relentlessly, and he can’t stop it from coming, and he doesn’t have any more strength to push it away. He shouldn’t have put it off for this long because at some point, something inside him shifted without him noticing. Something that turned “wait until things settle down and we don’t have other important things to worry about anymore” into “The longer I wait, the worse things will be”. 

It’s a more familiar feeling than it should be.

It’s also incredibly unhelpful because it leads to even worse feelings. Guilt, mostly. And shame. And anger at himself, frustration that he falls into the same trap every damn time, that he lets himself do this even though he should know better at this point. 

Then again, none of it is anything he doesn’t already feel on an alarmingly regular basis, so maybe nothing’s changed after all.

That’s the other thing. The thought of telling other people always makes him feel this way, but the thought of not telling them makes him feel it too. He can never win the battle inside his own head.

He spends the whole weekend wondering if Isak can tell that this is something he’s fighting. There was something… not off, necessarily, but perhaps unusual about his expression when Even first saw him Saturday morning. In the moment after he’d looked up and before he seemed to register who Even was, he almost looked lost.

But Even doesn’t know what to make of that because he’s afraid to ask. His imagination fills in the blanks with possibilities that are terrifying enough on their own. Something awful happened, is his first instinct. But surely at this point if it did, Isak would tell him. So maybe it’s just that he’s tired, or stressed, or overwhelmed at school. But it feels too deep for something school-related, too significant.

Maybe he knows that Even’s been lying to him. Maybe he can see right through him.

But if he does, wouldn’t he say something about that, too?

Whatever it is, Even can’t imagine Isak wouldn’t be at least a little bit suspicious. If he went to his best friend’s house on a morning he expected to find him and didn’t, he’d be worried too.

_So why don’t you just tell him now?_ the voice in the back of his head says.

A few weeks ago, he knew the answer to that question very well. He’s had lots of experience making up excuses to himself, after all.

Now, though, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, except for the fact that it’s just too damn hard.

Because the thing is, if he can barely say it to himself within the safety of his own head, where there’s nothing to hurt him except his own thoughts and regrets and shame, how could he possibly say it out loud?

“Even,” Isak says.

Even blinks, pulled abruptly out of his thoughts. It’s jarring, like waking suddenly from a dream he thought was real, though he can’t say he’s terribly upset about it.

He turns his head. Isak’s looking at him, eyes wide with visible concern even in the dark. Even had expected Isak to be half-asleep at this point, but he supposes he can’t be surprised that he’s not. They’ve both had complicated relationships with sleep for a long time, now.

“You okay?” Isak says. “You look…”

Isak doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. Even’s brain can fill in the blanks with a dozen different possibilities, each more unflattering than the last.

Even drags a hand across his face and sighs. “Guess I’m just having trouble sleeping.”

Isak breathes out a laugh. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

Even turns his body so that he’s fully facing Isak. He likes doing that, likes being able to take all of him in with his eyes and soak up the warmth of his proximity, likes feeling this close to him even when they’re not touching. From this angle, it’s easier to pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist, or that it doesn’t matter. He’s not sure he could forget it at this point, but he can at least fool himself into thinking it’s a possibility.

“Fucking sleepless nights,” he says.

“And you know what I say about those,” Isak says with a quiet smile, bringing a hand up to cup Even’s face. The touch is so gentle that for a terrible moment Even almost wants to cry at the feeling of it, but that would be too hard to explain, so instead he swallows down the hot tightness in his throat and pretends it doesn’t exist. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, because somehow that’s easier than to admit that after everything, he still feels alone.

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” Isak says, and Even’s chest wants to crack open at the sound of that, wants to split down the middle and spill all his feelings and his secrets into the night. Wants Isak to have them for safe-keeping, because between the two of them Even trusts Isak with the insides of his heart more than he trusts himself.

No, that’s a lie. He would never wish something like that on Isak. No one deserves something like _that_.

Isak’s thumb grazes over Even’s cheekbone, a touch that’s barely there but is still a familiar warmth against his skin, still grounds him when all his head wants to do is float away into the sky, the stars, the infinite universe. Away from his endless thoughts.

“Fuck sleep, anyway,” Isak says. “It’s overrated.”

Even feels the corner of his mouth twitch upward, despite himself. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Isak says. “I can’t remember that you’re next to me when I’m sleeping. I can’t talk to you. I can’t even look at you. Doesn’t that kind of suck?”

“And you really want to do those things?”

Isak’s eyes are soft and serious.

“Sometimes, I don’t want to do anything else,” Isak says.

He shouldn’t say things like that. Even knows he shouldn’t say things like that, knows with a certainty that aches deep in his chest. He also knows that after everything they’ve been through, after all the years they’ve missed, he doesn’t want to do anything else, either. He wants to spend the rest of his life holding Isak as close to himself as he can.

But he doesn’t know if he will, and that’s what aches most of all.

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” Even says, trying to keep his voice light. “What if you need to eat? What if you need to pee?”

Isak snorts; in the darkness it’s a gentle sound. “You know what I mean.”

Even leans his face forward and brushes his nose against Isak’s. “I might have an idea,” he says.

Isak’s face melts into a soft smile, and he kisses him.

It’s easy to lose himself in the sweetness of Isak’s mouth, warm and unhurried against his. Easy to close his eyes, easy to think that everything around them is falling to dust, easy to not care. The softness of Isak’s lips sets the dull ache in his chest on fire.

It hurts a little. It hurts more when Isak pulls away, but in a good kind of way. It’s the kind of hurt that means this matters.

“Can I tell you something?” Even says.

Isak nods slowly, watching him.

“I’m proud of you,” Even says. “For telling the boys last Friday. I haven’t told you that yet, but I should because it’s true. I’m so proud of you.”

In the darkness of the room, it’s impossible to miss the small, sharp breath Isak takes in. It makes Even’s heart twist in his chest because a noise like that means Isak’s not used to hearing something like that, even though he should hear it every day. It means Even hasn’t said it enough, even though it’s one of the realest feelings he knows.

“What for?” Isak says, pulling his hand away from Even’s face. “For not even being able to say that I’m - I’m…”

Something in Even’s chest twinges to hear Isak struggle. The question is easy to answer, though. Even is proud of Isak for being brave, simple as that. On that front, Isak is doing worlds better than he ever could.

But he doesn’t know how to say that in a way that would make Isak believe him, so he brushes his lips against the corner of Isak’s mouth and tries for a different answer. 

“You said enough,” he says.

Isak swallows audibly. “You weren’t even there,” he says. “You don’t know what they said afterward.”

“They weren’t bad about it, were they?” Even says, suddenly and irrationally fearful. He didn’t think they would be, not after what Isak has told him about them, but they both know that no truth in this world is set in stone.

“No,” Isak says. Even’s heart relaxes. “But, uh…” It beats faster again. “Magnus said it was really gay.”

Even doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

“Somehow,” Isak says, “it was easier for him to say than for me.”

He’s frowning, not meeting Even’s eyes, like he thinks this makes him a bad person. Which is an objectively ridiculous notion, but also not something Even would put past him. Isak could probably make himself feel that way about almost anything. It’s one of the things Even has learned about him recently, one of the things about him he’s still not used to simply because it’s one of the most stark differences between now and then. One of the things that makes Even’s heart want to break the most.

Even reaches out with his thumb and presses it against the space between Isak’s eyes. If only he could smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead with one touch, take away his frown and replace it with a smile. If only he could bring him peace, even if it was for just a moment. If only he thought he was the kind of person who was capable of it.

“Some things are hard to say,” Even says. “And some things you just don’t know.”

“But I think I know,” Isak says.

Even moves his thumb across the bridge of Isak’s nose, against his cheekbone, the skin of his temple. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Isak whispers.

Even runs his fingers through Isak’s hair, slowly. “Then I’m even prouder of you,” he whispers back.

Isak closes his eyes. For a moment, Even expects him to say something to that, to give more reasons why he isn’t saying or doing or being enough, reasons that would probably tear Even apart if he had to hear them. He doesn’t. He says nothing for a long while. The silence in the room has weight to it, but it feels familiar, almost comforting. Even hopes beyond hope that Isak finds it comforting, too.

Eventually, Isak shifts positions a little, and opens his eyes.

“You know something else they said?” he says.

Even rests his hand on Isak’s neck, trying to feel for his pulse under his palm. “What’s that?”

“They were wondering when they were going to get to meet you,” Isak says.

His gaze is searching, watching for Even’s reaction, most likely. Even wonders if he can sense the way that sentence makes his heart go into nervous uproar. He knows Isak was nervous telling his parents and his friends, but god, at least he knew them already. At least he knew they _liked_ him.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Even says.

His hand shifts against Isak’s neck, and suddenly there it is, a steady heartbeat under Even’s touch. It doesn’t speed up, and it doesn’t slow down. It stays exactly the same.

“I’d love for you to meet them, Even,” Isak says. “But it’s up to you.”

There are so many reasons Even could say no in this moment. He’s spent the whole night letting his doubts eat him up, so he knows there are at least a thousand to choose from.

He closes his eyes. If he focuses on Isak’s pulse, if he thinks of nothing else, he can almost believe that everything else in in the world will be as reliable as the feeling of Isak’s life under his fingertips.

It’s more than he’s let himself have in years.

“I think it’s a good idea, too,” Even says.

-

Half a week later, Even shows up at Isak’s place with not just one, not just two, but three six packs in tow, even though he already knows he isn’t going to be drinking any of it. Isak takes them from him with a fond shake of his head. “You know they’ll think you’re the coolest person they’ll ever be lucky to meet, right? Or they should, anyway, otherwise I’ll fight them.” 

Even doesn’t know that, not by a long shot. “I’m just trying to guarantee their love,” he says. “There’s no faster way to a man’s heart than with beer.”

“Oh, really?” Isak says, raising an eyebrow. “Is that how you won me over?”

Even comes over to where Isak is standing and puts his hands on the edge of the counter behind him, pressing their bodies flush against each other. Isak smiles at him contentedly, that particular heavy-lidded way of his that makes Even want to smile too.

“I didn’t need to win you over,” Even said. “You’ve been my biggest fan forever.”

“You think so, huh?” Isak says, raising an eyebrow.

“I know so,” Even says, leaning in to kiss him.

Isak makes a pleased noise into his mouth and slides his hands through Even’s hair, and warmth floods Even’s gut, tingling. He presses closer, as close as he can get, and for a moment, he almost forgets why they’re here in the first place.

Then Isak pulls away, and Even remembers again. Right, yes. There are people he has to meet in just a short while. Can’t let things get too heated in the kitchen.

Isak’s fingers are still tangled in his hair. He pulls lightly. “I don’t know if I’d say the _biggest_ ,” he says.

Even’s eyebrows shoot up. “No?”

“Yeah, that might be pushing it,” Isak says, pursing his lips in a mock expression of thoughtfulness. “Tenth biggest, _maybe_.”

“Tenth?” Even shoves at Isak’s shoulder, laughing. “Why tenth?”

Isak taps at his chin with a finger. “Well, you’re okay to be around, I guess, but you think you’re way funnier than you actually are. Also, your legs are too long. And you’re dramatic as fuck.”

Even presses his hand to his chest with a groan, dropping his face to Isak’s shoulder. “Look what you’ve done,” he says. “I think you’ve killed me.”

“You’re literally just proving my point,” Isak says.

Even grins as he straightens. “Well, unlike you, I have no scruples of admitting I’m _your_ biggest fan.”

Isak’s smile, now, is fond. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Even says. “I think you’re the greatest person in the world.”

They look at each other for a long while, the silence between them warm and familiar. Isak doesn’t try to deny it, doesn’t shake his head or look down and act embarrassed to hear a sentence like that. He just keeps smiling.

“You’re pretty okay, too,” he says softly.

There’s a knock on the door, then. Even steps away from Isak reluctantly, straightening out his clothes. His hair is probably beyond saving, but maybe no one will say anything if he doesn’t.

As it turns out, he has no such luck, because as soon as they open the door, Jonas looks them over and says, “Wow, I wonder what you two were doing before we got here.”

The boys behind him burst into raucous, incoherent cheers. Isak flushes. “Shut the fuck up,” he says. “Like you haven’t done way worse.”

Jonas grins as he steps into the apartment, ignoring the comment with practiced ease. “Good to finally meet you, bro,” he says to Even. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The thought makes Even’s heart clench in his chest, unbidden. “Good things, I hope.”

Jonas pats him on the shoulder. “No worries.”

Everyone else follows behind, and introductions are swiftly made. Mahdi gives him a fist bump and a respectful nod. Magnus bodily embraces him, flinging his arms around Even’s neck and smiling brightly as he pulls away. It’s a warm welcome, warmer than he let himself expect, and among them he senses not a single shred of dishonesty.

He’s got a feeling he’s going to come to really like these boys.

-

At some point during the afternoon, Even finds himself alone in the kitchen with Jonas. The rest of the boys are screaming at FIFA in the other room. Even had opted out as soon as the game came up - “Isak, I’d like to still be on speaking terms with you by the end of the day” - and Jonas, above Isak’s vehement protests, had thrown up his arms and loudly proclaimed, “Finally, someone who gets it.”

Now they’re in the kitchen cleaning up some of the mess they’d all left behind, working in companionable silence. Even likes how unassuming Jonas is as a conversation partner, never trying to force it, just letting things happen on their own.

“You guys can go through a lot of beer in one night,” Even says as he gathers empty cans for recycling. “I respect that.”

“It’s one of our redeeming qualities,” Jonas says. “Here, another one for your load.”

“Thanks.” Even takes the can and glances over at him. “How’d you guys meet, by the way? You all seem really close.”

Jonas hums thoughtfully. “Ah, yeah, I guess we didn’t really start being a group until right before this year started? But I knew Isak before Nissen, Isak met Magnus last year, and I met Mahdi. We started chilling, and I guess we all just kinda clicked. Bonded over weed and shit.”

“A good way to go,” Even says. He wonders if it’d be inappropriate for him to ask about Jonas and Isak before Nissen. It’s Isak’s story to tell, of course, or at least part of it is, but he hasn’t said that much about it, and Even hasn’t pushed. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that he wants to know.

Before he can figure out the right way to approach the situation, Jonas walks over to the table and settles heavily into one of the chairs, swinging his legs up to rest on another one. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

Even leans back against the countertop. It’s difficult to anticipate what kind of question Jonas might have in mind. From his current demeanor, he could just as easily be asking about something morbidly serious as he could be wondering about the weather. Either way, if it’s something he feels comfortable bringing up with Even after only having known each other for a few hours, maybe it’s nothing to be too concerned about. “Yeah?”

“Do you know how Isak’s doing, family-wise?” Jonas says.

Even frowns. That’s not a question he’d been expecting.

“He hasn’t really said much to me about it at all, actually,” Even said. “Pretty much all I know is it was bad enough for him to move out.”

Jonas nods, considering. The silence makes Even nervous.

“Why do you ask?” he says. “Is there anything I can do about it?”

“Ah, if he hasn’t said anything, probably not,” Jonas says. “I mean, he hasn’t really told me much recently, either. I don’t think it’s his favorite topic.”

“No,” Even says. “I don’t think so either.”

“I guess it’s the silence that concerns me,” Jonas says. “The more there is, the worse it might be.”

Even sighs. He’d already figured that one out for himself long ago.

“But we shouldn’t be talking about it too much with each other, either,” Jonas says. “Not really our business, you know?”

That much, Even can agree on.

“I just wish I could do something,” he says. “He takes on a lot by himself.”

“Yeah,” Jonas says softly. “He really does.”

Even’s heart swells in his chest. Here’s another person who gets it, really and truly gets it. If this is the kind of friend Isak had in his life when Even was gone, he almost feels better about not being there for him in the first place.

Almost.

“You do a lot for him, though,” Jonas says.

Even blinks.

“What do you mean?” he says.

Jonas shrugs. “I mean, I know you guys were really close before I met him. He really missed you when you moved.”

Even doesn’t really want to think about what Isak felt when he moved, but he supposes in a conversation like this there’s no avoiding it. “Yeah?”

“Well,” Jonas says. “He’d never say. You know how he is. But you could still tell.”

Even does know how he is. That’s what makes it so hard to think about.

“That, uh…” Even clears his throat. “That must have been really hard on him.”

“Yeah, but I think it’s because he looked up to you so much,” Jonas says. “It wouldn’t have been so hard if you weren’t so important to him.”

Even can think of absolutely nothing to say to that.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to, because Jonas is still talking. “And he still does, you know? He still looks up to you, a lot. It’s pretty obvious. Pretty obvious why, too.”

Even raises his eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Jonas says, grinning. “You’re a good person, man.”

If only he knew the half of it.

Even takes the statement in stride, though. Jonas might not have the full story, but it’s still something that’s coming from his heart, and at this point Even knows his is a heart he can trust.

“Is this you giving us our blessing or something?” Even says.

Jonas lets out a laugh. “Nah, Isak doesn’t need it.”

There’s silence for a beat or two, mostly because Even still can’t really think of anything meaningful to say. After a while, Jonas’ gaze flickers up to meet Even’s eyes.

“You know, for what it’s worth…” He smiles again. “I’m glad Isak found you again.”

Even swallows past the sudden lump in his throat.

“I’m glad he found me, too,” Even says.

-

After the boys leave for the night, Isak tugs Even into his room by the hand, and they fall onto the bed in unison. Isak buries his face in the crook of Even’s neck and lets out a contented sigh, the force of his breath warming Even’s skin.

“How’d you like them?” Isak says.

Even curls his arms around Isak, pulling him closer. Isak gets the hint and rolls on top of him. Isak’s not exactly the lightest person Even could have on him, but he doesn’t mind the weight. It doesn’t feel suffocating, doesn’t make it hard to breathe. Even breathes easier when he has Isak this close to him, if anything, feels more like a real person with someone this warm and tangible in his arms.

“They’re great,” Even says. “Really great. I just hope I lived up to the hype.”

Isak huffs out an incredulous laugh. “You totally did,” he says. “I don’t even have to ask them and I know. Did you see the way Magnus was looking at you? Fucking stars in his eyes.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Even says.

Isak tilts his head back and lands a clumsy kiss along Even’s jaw. “It’s nice,” he says, letting his head drop back down on Even’s chest. “My best friend meeting my other best friend. I like that a lot.”

“Ah, yeah,” Even says. “We were talking in the kitchen earlier. Jonas? He was chill.”

“Oh,” Isak says. “I hope he didn’t bully you or anything.”

Even laughs. “No, nothing like that,” he says. “He didn’t threaten to rip my heart out if I hurt you.”

“Good,” Isak says. “That means he knows you never would.”

He says it with so much confidence that it gives Even pause. He looks down at Isak, but he seems oblivious, eyes closed and a contented smile on his lips. His ear is pressed against Even’s chest, and Even wonders if he can hear the way his heartbeat picks up. Even can definitely feel it.

He isn’t sure he knows that, himself. There’s too many things he’s capable of.

He clears his throat. “He did ask me something, though,” he says. “Which I should probably tell you about.”

Isak opens his eyes and looks up at him. “What’s that?”

“He asked me how you’re doing, family-wise,” Even says.

Isak’s face grows still, an achingly familiar expression. It hurts, honestly, even after all these years, even after Even should be used to seeing something like it, to watch Isak close himself off before his very eyes.

“What'd you say?” Isak says.

Even reaches up with a hand to brush the hair out of Isak’s forehead. “I said I didn’t know.”

“Good,” Isak says. “He should be asking me that, if he’s really curious.”

Even presses a kiss to his forehead. “I know, Isak,” he says. “I think he’s just worried.”

“He shouldn’t be,” Isak says, a little forcefully.

“Shouldn’t he?” Even says.

Isak’s eyes flicker back to Even’s. They stare at each other for a long moment.

Isak breaks first, turning his head away. “Fuck if I know,” he mumbles. “But I don’t have to tell him shit if I don’t want to.”

Even runs his hand over Isak’s back, up and down. It’s something he’s been telling Isak a lot over the few weeks, that he shouldn’t push himself to talk about important things if he’s not ready. He wonders if his reasons were entirely altruistic. It’s an easy excuse, isn’t it, when you don’t say something because you don’t want to think about it?

Even thinks he’s been making that excuse to himself for years.

Where do you draw the line, though, between actually giving yourself the time you need and absolving yourself of the responsibility to do something unpleasant but necessary? He’s asked those questions in therapy multiple times before, but his therapists have never been ones for giving him direct answers, have always pushed him to draw his own conclusions. Sometimes he appreciates that. Other times, he wishes someone would just tell him how he’s supposed to feel for once. He doesn’t know if that would make it easier, but maybe if he knew how he was supposed to feel he could stop wondering how wrong his actual feelings are. Maybe he’d know already.

“Is it because you don’t want to?” Even says. “Or is it because you’re scared to?”

At this point, he’s asking those questions more to himself than anything else. Though he doesn’t know why he bothers, really. He knew his answer before he even said it out loud.

Isak shifts against his body, which reminds him where he is and what those questions actually sound like outside his head. He glances down at Isak, who’s still refusing to look at him.

“So what if I am?” Isak whispers.

So what if he is?

So what if Even is?

“What are you scared of?” Even says.

He can feel it when Isak’s breath stutters in his chest. Makes his own lungs feel tight, too.

“Fucking up, mostly,” Isak says. “Or that I already have. That it’s too late.”

Even doesn’t ask what he means. At this point, he has no clue what Isak is talking about. All he knows is that those words hit him in his gut hard, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe entirely.

It’s not the same, though. As much as it hurts to hear those words, and shit, it carves the spaces between his ribs hollow to hear Isak speak those words with that level of certainty, they don’t fear quite the same thing. He’s not scared of fucking up because he knows he already has. He breathes it in and out every moment of the day, fills his lungs with the ache of his own regret every time he inhales, feels the weight of it behind his sternum every morning he wakes up and every night he goes to bed. It hardly even matters some days what he fucked up because he’ll feel it anyway, but recently there’s only ever been one reason.

Here is the crux of the matter, then:

He’s not scared of fucking up. 

He’s scared of what will happen after everyone else figures out that he has.

“I don’t know what I’d do, if I have,” Isak says.

Even brings his hand to the back of Isak’s neck, tangling his fingers in the curls of his hair and holding onto him tight. He used to dream about this in the early days of being in Stavanger, used to close his eyes in the dark of his room and think he’d do just about anything for the chance to have this again. Because if he was given that chance, even the smallest glimpse of one, he would never, ever let Isak go.

It ate him alive, back then, because he thought he would never have it. But now that he does, it’s eating him alive, too. There’s something quiet and small yet mercilessly persistent in the back of his head that tells him somewhere along the line without his noticing, he’s already lost it.

And he’ll never get it back, that tiny voice in his head says. He doesn’t deserve to.

That’s what’ll happen if he tells Isak. He’ll know for sure that the awful thoughts in his mind were right. But right now, he can still lie to himself, and it still feels good.

“You’d still have me,” Even says. 

Those words feel better than anything.

-

Even’s been putting off calling Sonja even though he still gets the occasional message from her, but at this point it’s starting to feel like he’s just delaying the inevitable. He wonders how soon would be too soon. She did call him just a few days after their break-up, so he figures she’d probably be okay with him returning the favor after a few weeks. But are they the kind of exes who are allowed to be friends like that? Is it fair of him to come to her for advice about someone entirely different?

He doesn’t know. All he knows is, he has no one else to ask.

Even sets up a time with her for a Sunday evening because she’s so busy nowadays that’s what you have to do if you want to talk to her, you have to schedule an appointment like a fucking doctor’s visit or something. Though he supposes that’s not completely different from how things were right before they broke up. Maybe that’s why the long distance thing fell apart so quickly. It was too easy to let talking to her turn into just another thing he was supposed to do rather than something he actually looked forward to.

This time, she’s the one who calls him, right on the dot at their scheduled time. “Hey, Even,” she says when he picks up. She sounds tired, but otherwise well. He hopes she hasn’t been pushing herself too hard, though if she has he can’t say he’s too surprised. It’s long been a bad habit of hers.

“Hey,” he says. “How are you?”

“Busy at work,” she says, which is such a predictable answer he knew what she was going to say before he even asked her the question. Just as predictable is how she won’t say anything more on the topic before asking, “And you?”

Even knows what she really means. He could deflect, maybe, be a little snarky about it if he had the energy for biting sarcasm. It’s been a while, though, and he was enough of a shit to her before then. In the end, the guilt wins out; these days, it almost always does.

“Head-wise, I think I’m doing okay lately,” he says. “Haven’t missed therapy since we last called.”

“Good, good,” she says. He should probably be grateful that this time she chooses not to pause on his answer, not to dissect the generic words that don’t actually say a thing about how he feels. Back when they were still dating, especially in the later days, it was all he ever wanted from her. He doesn’t know how he feels about it now, but before he can figure it out she’s already moved on to the next thing on the list of questions she probably already had at the ready. “And how’s Isak?”

Yeah, there it is. It sounds a little stilted, but he supposes there’s no helping that. “We’re good,” he says carefully. Telling his ex that his current - whatever Isak is - makes Even happier than he remembers being in a very long time, even if he and Sonja are supposed to be on good terms, is probably not the brightest idea.

“Cool,” Sonja says.

“Yup,” Even says.

They’re silent for a painful, jagged moment. He can’t even hear the sound of her breathing over the phone. For some reason, that disconcerts him.

He inhales deeply. Now or never, he supposes, and he’s picked never too many times as of late.

“That’s kind of why I wanted to call you, actually,” he says.

“Oh, really?”

He scrunches up his nose. “I don’t know, is it weird to ask your ex for relationship advice?”

Sonja lets out a surprised laugh. He counts that as a victory; at this point, he needs to take what he can get. “I mean, I’m also your friend, aren’t I?” she says.

“Just about my only one, right now,” he says gravely.

“Loser,” she says, with more fondness than he deserves. “Honestly, though, I think we got all the awkward stuff out of the way the last time we were exes. As far as break-ups go, that one was _way_ worse than this.”

Right, yeah, that was a thing. It’s not a time of Even’s life he likes to think too much about. Happened months ago, but still feels far too soon. She jokes about it now, but in those days, neither of them were laughing.

“You’re probably right,” he says lightly. “Look at us being mature responsible adults, handling our feelings the mature responsible way.”

“We try, don’t we?” Sonja sighs. “Though jury’s out on whether we actually succeed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Even sniffs. “I’m the most mature and responsible nineteen year old you know.”

“Right, of course,” Sonja says, coughing out a laugh. “So what did you want to talk about?”

He’s been preparing himself for this moment all day, trying to anticipate the _I told you so_ he’s inevitably going to get from her, but even after all that time he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it well.

Still, this is important. Way more important than his ego, in any case.

“So you know what you asked me last time?” Even says. “If I’d told him yet?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask about, mostly,” Even says. “How I should do it.”

A pause, for a few seconds.

“Oh, Even,” Sonja says, softly.

It’s not exactly what he’d been expecting. He’d expected anger, maybe, and definitely righteousness. Certainly not pity.

He’s not sure how to feel about it.

“I don’t know,” he says. “What do you think?”

She sighs again, a prim little sound. “I don’t know, Even. You said this was your decision.”

“I did,” he says, a little regretfully. At this point he doesn’t know if he can trust himself to make his own decisions without fucking them up beyond repair. “I can’t help but feel like I made the wrong choice, though.”

“What would be the wrong choice?”

“If I waited too long,” Even says, thinking back to his conversation with Isak last week.

“When would be the right time, then?” Sonja says. “When should you have told him?”

When they first got together, maybe. But that didn’t feel like the right time because things were moving so fast, and Isak needed to feel more comfortable in his own skin before they could have this conversation. Or so he told himself.

When they first reunited, on the first day of school. But that didn’t feel right, either. Things were so uncertain, so fragile. He didn’t want to upset the balance so soon after he’d just gotten it back again.

No, the real answer to that question is this:

Even should have told Isak the day he was diagnosed.

He thought he had reasons back then, too.

“He’ll be angry if I tell him now,” Even says. “Angry that I kept it from him for so long.”

“Do you think he’d leave if you did?” she says. He can just picture the frown on her face. “Is _that_ why you haven’t told him?”

“He wouldn’t leave,” Even says. “That’s the problem.”

A beat of incredulous silence.

“I don’t understand,” Sonja says.

She’s clearly expecting an explanation, but how could he possibly give it to her? How could he describe how Isak used to look after things were rough at home and he’d show up unannounced on Even’s doorstep, hands shaking and emptiness in his eyes? How could he describe how Isak used to look whenever he went back, because no matter how many times Even said it was okay for him to take a break from that god-forsaken house if he needed it Isak always went back the next day, determined to make things better, never for a second believing his family’s problems weren’t his responsibility? How could he describe how Isak looked four years later, hands shoved in his pockets when he said he’d moved out, eyes glued to the ground and shame written on every inch of his face simply because he believed moving out meant he’d given up?

No, if Isak had to deal with Even’s problems, he wouldn’t leave. He would stay past the point of what was good for him, past the point of what was good for either of them. He would stay, and Even would take everything from him because that’s just what he does to the people he loves, he takes and takes and takes until there’s nothing left of the both of them, until the other person has no choice but to leave. That’s what happened when Sonja first broke up with him. She left because he sucked her dry of every single goddamn feeling she had for him, every ounce of caring in her heart, and even though she came back she shouldn’t have, because things were never the same again.

That’s what would happen with Isak, except it would be even worse because it wouldn’t even be the first time, and he’d have to live with the knowledge that he got his second chance and wasted it exactly the same way he did before.

“Listen, Even,” Sonja says. Impatient that he hasn’t said anything, most likely, but he can’t help how fucking loud his thoughts are sometimes. “Not telling him isn’t protecting him from your problems. You’re still bipolar, right? He just doesn’t know.”

In this moment Even understands what Isak meant a few days ago, so deeply his entire heart throbs. Hearing someone say the one thing he finds impossible to say about himself cuts at his insides deeper than he could even imagine.

“I just hate that I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Even says. Maybe that’s what he wants his superpower to be, to look into the future. Though he can’t decide if that would make things easier or harder. Would it be easier because he’d know what would happen, or would it be harder because he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it?

“You can’t control for everything, Even,” Sonja says. Her voice is gentler this time. Out of pity again, most likely.

He lets out a long exhale. “No?”

“None of us can,” she says.

Maybe that’s true, or maybe he just doesn’t want to believe it. Maybe it feels like someone out there in the universe does have the ability to do that, because maybe if there was it would give him the faintest glimmer of hope for himself. It’s all he’s ever wanted, really. To feel for once in his life like he wasn’t entirely out of control, like he actually knew what he was doing instead of chafing under the painful awareness that he doesn’t.

He has a hard time, sometimes, of wrapping his head around the impossible.

“Maybe you should just be upfront with him,” Sonja suggests. “I don’t know, I think… I think he might surprise you.”

And maybe that’s what Even’s been scared of all along.

He takes in a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness in his lungs. It doesn’t help.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe I should.”

“Even,” Sonja says, as if she’s about to start a new sentence, but she doesn’t go on. Maybe she thought better of it, maybe she came to the realization that he’s beyond her help. Took her long enough.

“I should let you go,” he says. “You’ve got work tomorrow, don’t you?”

“God, don’t remind me,” she says. “Thinking about the million things I have to do tomorrow just took, like, a year off my life.”

“Sorry,” he says. “You should get some rest.”

“Can’t dispute that.” There’s a long, considering pause. Then, another sigh, this one quiet. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Even lets out a laugh he doesn’t feel.

“Good night, Sonja,” he says. He doesn’t have the energy right now for making promises he can’t keep.

-

The storm of his thoughts is loud and relentless the next day, enough noise in his head that the restlessness fills him up from head to toe. It absolutely wrecks his concentration in class, but he can’t bring himself to feel too bad about it. At least he’s here.

He leaves his last class feeling like his insides are all in the wrong place, and he’s so lost in his own mind he startles when something warm wraps around his wrist.

He looks down - a hand is gripping at his arm - and then to his side, and there’s Isak, leaning against the wall outside his classroom and looking at him with a pleased little smile. Immediately, he stops in his tracks, taken totally off guard. He hadn’t been expecting to see Isak now, had already been thinking ahead to when he’d go and meet _him_ at his last class, but now that he does he can’t bring himself to regret it. Isak looks damn good today, flannel shirt with sleeves rolled casually up to his elbow and curls peeking out from under his snapback. All nonchalant and self-assured and everything Even doesn’t feel capable of being right now.

Still, it calms him to look at Isak. Doesn’t make the noise go away because nothing in the world is capable of doing that, but it makes him feel more settled in his skin, less like he doesn’t belong there. It makes his gut feel warm, too, in a way he can’t ignore. Makes a tiny thrill jolt through his skin where Isak’s still touching him.

“Hey,” Even says. “Didn’t expect to see you around here.”

Isak pulls his hand away. “Yeah, I figured I’d stalk you for a change,” he says. “See how you feel about it.”

“I’m literally not bothered by it at all,” Even says, letting a grin overtake his face. There’s no point in trying to hide how good it feels to have Isak next to him, or how easy it is to ignore all the other shit when suddenly he has much more important things to focus on.

Isak grins back. “How are you?”

“Good,” he says, which is the truth in this moment. “And you?”

Isak stretches his hands above his head and lets out an exaggerated groan. “Can’t wait to get home,” he says, and honest to god _winks_. It should be the dorkiest, most ridiculous thing Even’s ever seen, but all it does is make his heart beat faster.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.”

-

They burst into Isak’s room noisily and with abandon. Isak shoulders the door closed, and then he’s on Even again, hands grabbing at his hair, his clothes, his neck, crashing their mouths together hungrily. Even can understand why, he thinks hazily as Isak’s hands slide hotly against his skin, when it’s been days since the last time they did this and today especially has felt so bleak, because even as everything around them is turning to shit, even when his own head is falling apart from the inside out, they’ll still have this. Isak will always come back to him.

Sometimes, that thought scares him so badly it hurts. It feels like so much power to have over another person, too much, more than he deserves. He could so easily misuse it. And he has, before. That’s what makes the fear so real.

Right now, though, it just feels like truth. Simple, profound truth.

The backs of Even’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and suddenly he’s falling, and Isak falls with him, landing on top of him with a grunt. The noise melts into a soft, breathy moan when Even’s fingers shove his hat off and tug at his hair, and it goes straight to Even’s gut, manifesting in a heat that sparks at his insides. His hands slip under Isak’s shirt, sliding against the warm, smooth skin of his back, nails scratching against his shoulder blades, and it pulls another stuttered gasp out of Isak, and Even lives for it, honestly, he lives for every single fucking sound he can get out of him. It’s music; it’s wordless poetry.

Isak pulls away briefly, tugging his shirt off, and Even’s sitting up and doing the same, and he lives for this too, the feeling of Isak’s body against his with nothing between them, just the sliding of skin against skin. It’s enough to make him forget he had a reason to be sad today, or at least enough to make him pretend he can forget, and that counts for something too, right?

That counts for something, too.

-

“I think I am scared,” Isak says, later.

“Hm?” Even says into Isak’s pillow, wondering how hard he should try to fight off the sleepiness. Everything’s too comfortable right now for it to feel worth it.

“That conversation we had last week,” Isak said. “I think maybe I am scared.”

That’s enough to make Even feel less like sleeping. He turns his head so that the side of his face is pressed against the pillow. Being on his stomach like this isn’t exactly the most comfortable angle, but he can’t bring himself to care. Isak’s staring up at the ceiling contemplatively. The expression on his face is relaxed, so Even isn’t too worried. Still, this generally isn’t the kind of topic people usually bring up in bed, so maybe he should be worried.

“Why are you scared?” Even asks.

Isak blinks slowly. Even counts the motion of his eyelids. Once, twice, three times.

“I don’t know anymore,” Isak says. “I just am.”

Fear with no real reason. Even can understand that.

“I’m scared, too,” he says.

A flicker of a frown crosses Isak’s face. “Yeah?”

How honest is Even allowed to get right now? How honest will he let himself get? He never really knows the answer to those questions before he starts talking.

“I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he says. “I mean, I never did, I don’t think. But sometimes everything just feels like so much.”

Pretty damn honest, as it turns out, but he’s almost certain the words make no sense outside his own head. Hell, they barely make sense inside his head to begin with.

“In a good way or a bad way?” Isak says, not asking for an explanation. Maybe he gets it, or maybe he doesn’t feel the need to.

“Neither,” Even says. “But that’s what makes it so fucking hard, you know? It feels like it should be one or the other.”

“It would be easier, wouldn’t it?” Isak says. “If it were?”

Even lets out a laugh. “Much easier,” he says. “I mean, I know that’s not how the world works, I know things aren’t… they’re not in shades of black and white, right? It’d be so boring it they were. But it’s the grey that scares me. It’s the uncertainty. If I could just know what something’s supposed to be, then maybe I’d know how I’m supposed to feel about it.”

“Yeah,” Isak whispers. “I get that.”

Even reaches out with a hand, skimming his fingers over the line of Isak’s collarbone. Isak turns his head toward him and smiles softly. He’s seen that smile a million times over the course of his life, surely, but even now it does not fail to warm his heart.

“What if we could stop worrying about how things are supposed to be, though?” Isak says. “Wouldn’t that make it easier, too?”

Even feels himself frown. “What do you mean?”

“Thinking about how things are supposed to be means we think there are rules,” Isak says. “But life doesn’t play by rules, and the universe doesn’t, either. It just kind of… is.”

“I don’t get how that’s supposed to make things easier,” Even says.

“Well, take us, for instance.” Isak takes hold of Even’s hand easily, lacing their fingers together. He holds their joined hands above his face, giving them a long, considering look. “Before we got together, I freaked out really badly over what we were supposed to be. I thought I wasn’t supposed to have feelings for you because we were supposed to be best friends and nothing else. I thought I wasn’t supposed to _want_ anything else.”

Isak glances over at Even, then back at their hands. Even swallows, hard.

“But I do have feelings for you,” Isak continues quietly. “And we are something else, now. And that’s just the way things are.”

Even is sure he forgot how to breathe long ago.

“You get what I mean?” Isak says.

Even thinks he does.

“You mean to say what we have isn’t good?” he says, just to see how Isak will react.

Isak snorts and rolls his eyes and drops their joined hands to his chest. The full package. “You know that’s not what I said.”

“Of course not,” Even says, grinning. He can’t help it, sometimes. It’s just nice to have the reaffirmation.

Isak glances at him out of the corner of his eye and smiles back. Then, he sighs.

“It feels like after that, nothing should be scary anymore,” Isak says. “I was scared shitless of fucking things up with you.”

Even squeezes Isak’s fingers. “You didn’t,” Even says.

“I didn’t,” Isak says, corner of his mouth twitching up. “But you know what I mean? It feels like I had so much fear back then, so fucking much to lose, that everything after should be easy.”

If only fear worked like that, but Even knows viscerally well that it doesn’t. Learning how to deal with emotions is a life-long process Even doesn’t know if he’ll ever master.

“It’s okay that it’s not,” Even says. “You’re not supposed to find everything easy.”

“Wow,” Isak says dryly. “I see what you did there.”

It’s an obvious deflection, and maybe at a different time Even would humor him but tonight he just shakes his head and persists. “I’m serious,” he says. “You know that, right? It’s not your fault if it’s not easy.”

Isak’s frowning, now, like he disagrees. Why does he disagree?

“It is my fault if I handle it badly,” he says. “If I - if I push it away, if I don’t handle it at all.”

Even’s heart starts beating faster in his chest, unbidden. “And what’s stopping you from handling it?”

“I just…” Isak takes in a breath. “I feel like I’ve just put it off for way too long. Like if I try to handle it now, it’ll just make things worse.”

“Do you want to handle it?” Even says.

“I feel like I should,” Isak says. “But maybe it’s just too late.”

Even has nothing helpful to say to that. It’s the same battle he’s been fighting inside his head, every damn day. All he can do is tighten his fingers around Isak’s and pretend his touch is enough to make the both of them feel a little more at ease. 

They lie there in the silence, and after a while, it starts feeling less like pretending.

-

The next day, Even goes home after school and his mom is in the kitchen. She must hear him come in because she pokes her head out into the hall and says, “Hey, can you help me with dinner?”

Even makes his way into the kitchen. “Yeah, of course. Hold on, just let me wash my hands.”

He gets to work chopping up vegetables, and they work in companionable silence for a short while. The rhythm of his work settles the pace of his thoughts. Something about the repetition of the movements calms him, or the familiarity of them. He used to help his mom a lot with preparing meals before they moved back to Oslo, but after the move he’s been spending less and less time in the house. A momentary pang of guilt shoots through his heart. He wonders if his parents have noticed that, too.

“So,” his mom says.

He glances up at her. “Trying to make small talk with me?” Even says, raising his eyebrows.

“You’re just so hard to talk to,” she says seriously. “Do I have any other choice?”

He laughs. “What’s up?”

“I was just going to ask how things are going with you and Isak,” she says, smiling.

Warmth rushes his gut, and he can feel it in his cheeks, too. He looks down, trying and probably failing to hide his own smile. “You probably know how they are.”

“So, pretty great, then,” she says.

This time, there’s no stopping his smile from turning into a grin. If he smiles any harder, he’s sure his face is going to split wide open. “Yeah, pretty great.”

She nods, not pushing further. It’s one of the thing he appreciates about her, how she trusts him enough to take what he says at face value and never asks him to give more.

Then again, it’s one of those things that’s always made him feel guilty, too. There are too many ways faith like that can be exploited. He learned that the hard way last year.

“I’m happy for you, Even,” she says, and if she trusts him to tell her the truth, he knows he trusts her to do the same. It sounds so easy coming from her, but he knows how much it means for her to say something like that. She would tell him if she had any doubts at all, and her opinion on that kind of thing matters more to him than most people’s.

“Thanks, mom,” he says.

“You know,” she says, “after - well, after everything that happened last term, I’m glad things are looking up for you, finally. It’s what you deserve.”

Is it really? Everything that happened last term was basically his fault, after all.

“And it’s nice to see you with someone who knows you as well as that boy does,” his mom continues. “He’s been through so much with you.”

This, he knows, is not a light statement coming from her. She loved Sonja too, thought it was more than nice to see Even with her, and seemed completely blindsided the first time they broke up. Of course, you’d have to be exceedingly unobservant to miss the way things slowly fell apart between the two of them after that, and his mother is anything but. Still, though. That she could so easily accept Isak in stride so soon after Sonja definitely counts for something.

“Did you think we’d end up dating when we were younger?” Even says.

The question seems to surprise a laugh out of her. “Well, frankly, I can’t say I’ve ever put that much thought into your love life,” she says. “I’m not exactly a prophet.”

Yeah, go figure. It’s not like Even saw it coming when he was fifteen, either.

Her expression softens, then. “Your happiness has always mattered more to me than who you’re dating, Even. And Isak has always made you happier.”

He certainly can’t dispute that. So little has felt certain recently, but that at least does. Four years couldn’t take that away from them; nothing could.

Well. Maybe not nothing.

His face must be doing something concerning - he wouldn’t know; when he’s this wrapped up in his own head it’s pretty difficult to control what his face looks like - because his mom raises her eyebrows. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” he says firmly. “I was just…” He hesitates. Is this something he should bring up with her? He doesn’t think she’d get angry or anything, but he doesn’t know if he has the strength to face her disappointment, either.

Quietly, she puts down the knife she’s holding and turns to him, folding her arms over her chest. He has her full attention, now.

He puts down his knife too, and swallows. “I was thinking…”

She tilts her head, waiting.

“I think I might have…” He breathes in, harshly. “I think I made a mistake.”

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t told him about my illness yet,” he says.

“Oh,” his mom says.

He has no idea what she’s thinking, which makes him nervous. “Do you think that’s that bad?” he says. He knows what he thinks, and he knows what she _probably_ thinks, but maybe it’d hurt less if she actually said it.

She purses her lips. Still not really much of an indication.

“I think it depends on your reasons, Even,” she says.

He hadn’t seen that answer coming, but maybe he should have.

He thinks back to his conversation with Sonja, when she asked him the same thing. He told her it’s because he thought it was too late, and because he wasn’t sure how Isak would react when he told him, and that both of those things scared him. None of those things are false. But they’re not the full truth, either, because it’s been a very, very long time since he’s trusted Sonja with the full truth.

Here’s something he would never dream of telling her - he knows that she was thinking of breaking up with him around the time he was first diagnosed. She doesn’t know that he knew; she thought she’d been great at hiding it. But though he’s not an expert on romantic relationships by any means, he did know what it meant for her to put a polite amount of distance between them at public gatherings, to pull away from his kisses a little too quickly, to smile at him with obvious sympathy in her eyes. He knew if she did ask he’d have to respect her wishes and let her go, but the thought scared him shitless, and he dug his heels in hard. They’d been dating for a year and already she felt like an integral part of his life, something he could count on when he’d lost so much else already. He didn’t think he was ready to lose that so soon after the last time.

Then everything properly fell to shit. For the first time, that is. But after the dust settled, something changed between them, something small and invisible but very real. The first time they saw each other after his diagnosis he’d smiled weakly at her and cracked some joke he doesn’t remember anymore, and she’d given him a watery smile back. And that was all it took; she didn’t break up with him.

Something changed in the way she saw him, too. It’s the reason why after they did properly break things off last year and things fell to shit yet again, she came back. And it’s the reason why his mom is so careful around him now, so careful with her words and his feelings. And it’s the reason why his friends in Stavanger stopped talking to him after his last manic episode - or maybe it’s the reason why he stopped talking to them; he can’t remember what came first anymore - and it’s the reason why half the people he talks to these days are doctors and therapists and psychiatrists.

He’d have to be a fucking idiot not to see the common thread, there.

Maybe in the end it’s not a matter of timing, or of uncertainty, or of fear. Maybe it’s a matter of Isak being the only person Even knows who doesn’t know he’s ill. Maybe it’s a matter of wanting to hold onto that for as long as he can, because as much as he hates himself for it he has to admit he can be a selfish bastard when he wants to be.

Maybe he just wants to be seen as him. Not as a patient, not as someone who needs looking after, but _him_. Even if it’s only for one more day.

And maybe Isak is the only one in the whole damn world who does.

And maybe what he’s scared of is fucking that up. Because if he loses that...

If he _loses_ that… 

“I don’t want him to hate me,” Even says.

The words sound pathetically desperate, even to his own ears. He can’t bring himself to care, not when his throat and his chest and everything inside him feels tight and burning and in utter chaos. It’s stupid, immensely so, but it’s still one of the hardest things he’s ever admitted out loud.

He looks over at his mom. The expression on her face isn’t pitying, as he’d half-expected. She just looks sad.

“Even,” she says, “as if that boy could ever hate you.”

From her, the statement carries a weight that’s hard to ignore. When he was a small boy, he used to think everything his parents said was truth, used to think they knew more about the universe than anyone else in the world. He’s not quite sure he’s outgrown the idea.

He swallows, hard. “Still,” he says. “I don’t want to make things complicated, you know? I know I have to tell him eventually, but… just for a little while, it’d be nice for things to stay the same.”

He hazards another glance at his mother. Her expression has not changed.

“Are you happy with things the way they are now?” she says.

The kitchen is silent, save for the sound of boiling water. She should probably check on that. Even would hate to have today’s dinner be yet another thing he’s fucked up recently.

She sighs, and doesn’t make a move toward the food.

“You can take your time with it, you know that, right?” she says.

He almost wants to laugh. Does he know that?

“The more I wait, the angrier he’s going to be,” he says.

Now, finally, she turns around to check the water. She turns down the heat, picks up the knife and starts chopping again in one fluid motion.

“Or maybe he’ll get it,” she says.

She’s always had this way of making things seem so simple. Even almost wants to talk back, to make it clear that things aren’t that easy, that they can’t be.

But he doesn’t. Maybe he wants to believe things aren’t that complicated.

Maybe that’s all that matters.

-

Coming home with Isak, at this point, happens almost every day. It seems kind of silly to keep distance between them when everyone they live with on both sides knows about them, and either way it’s no inconvenience. It’s more of a rediscovered old habit. Before Even moved away, not a single day went by when they didn’t go home together. Coming home together now is the same thing, in some ways, but in others it’s not. The fact that the distance is too far to traverse with bicycles is an obvious difference, but there’s also the matter of context. Back then, Even took shit like this for granted. He doesn’t anymore.

And there’s also the fact that Even has his arm resting casually on the back of Isak’s seat, and Isak doesn’t shy away from it. Isak leans his head on Even’s shoulder, and no one says a thing about it.

“Something I’ve been thinking about,” Even says.

Isak hums. “You? Thinking about things? I’m shocked.”

Even taps his hand lightly against Isak’s shoulder. “Very funny,” he says.

Isak smiles lazily. “You were saying?”

“I asked my mom the other day if she saw it coming when we were younger,” Even says. “Us being together, I mean. She was like, ‘Even, I’m not a fucking prophet’.”

Isak snorts. “I’m sure she said it exactly like that.”

Even waves his hand. “Artistic embellishment. But anyway, I was thinking about when we _did_ see it coming. Was there this big moment of epiphany you realized something like this was even remotely possible? Or did it just kind of sneak up on you?”

“Does it matter?” Isak counters. “We’re together, either way.”

“I guess it doesn’t,” Even muses. “It had to have happened at some point, though. It’s not like I actively thought about kissing you when I was fifteen. Something changed, somewhere along the line.”

Isak makes a considering sound. “Do you have any guesses as to when that was for you?”

“I’ve given it some thought,” Even admits. “I mean, when we first met, it was pretty difficult to ignore how attractive you’d gotten.”

He can practically feel the eye roll, even if he doesn’t see it. “Fucking puberty.”

“Exactly,” Even says, smiling. “But if there was any one moment for me, it was probably when you showed me the drawing you’d saved in your wallet.”

“Really?” Isak says, surprise coloring his voice.

Maybe it would be surprising to hear that for him it happened so soon after they met up again, and at such a small incident, but Even doesn’t find it surprising at all. “It felt like - ” He frowns, trying to find the right words. “Fuck, I don’t even know. I guess that’s when I realized I still mattered to you.”

Isak doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, he huffs out a soft laugh.

“Talk about sentimental fucker,” he says. “Honestly, you would be the kind of loser who’d get a crush on someone just because they _saved your drawing_.”

Even shrugs, not quite able to feel shame over it. There are other things he regrets more. “What about you?”

“I don’t know,” Isak says. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

Even waits.

“I guess,” Isak says after another beat of silence, “I guess for me, it wasn’t a matter of knowing. It was a matter of letting myself know.”

“Yeah?”

“Though if it’s a matter of knowing,” Isak says, “I think maybe I’ve known half my life.”

He says it lightly and follows it with a laugh, playing it off as a joke, but Even knows better than to accept something like that at face value.

“That’s a long time,” Even says.

“I’ve known you for a long time, haven’t I?” Isak says.

Logically speaking, Even knows Isak can’t be right. When you’re a kid you don’t think about things like love and romance, you just don’t. But thinking back, maybe there’s something to it, even if it’s not exactly in the same sense. Even can’t remember a time of his life anymore when his dearest wish wasn’t to see Isak smile.

Even when some things have changed between them, others have stayed exactly the same.

Before he can think of a proper answer to Isak’s question, the tram pulls up to his stop. Isak straightens, and they get off. The walk to his place is silent, which is just as well, because his mind hasn’t stopped churning, and when it’s like that it’s hard to think of things to say out loud. 

Change is a word his thoughts won’t let go of, which seems significant. Because that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it? He doesn’t remember all that he felt when he was fifteen years old, but he does remember how much he hated the thought of change. Of being the reason why things would change between him and Isak.

When he moved away, it was his worst nightmare come to life. It hardly even mattered that he had no control over it. In some ways, that almost made it worse, that he had to watch it happen and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

And things did change between them. That just seems inevitable.

But did that really turn out to be such a bad thing?

He’s still trying to figure out the answer to that question when they get into his flat. He can feel Isak shooting him a worried look, but he can hardly think about trying to assuage that concern when he has so little control over his own feelings. No one’s home at least, which is a small comfort because as much as he loves his parents, he’s thinking about doing something very important and very scary, and it would be that much more difficult if he had to deal with anyone other than Isak.

They go into the living room and sit on the couch, legs pressing against each other. Isak must be able to tell that Even has something on his mind because he stays silent, eyes on the hands in his lap. The inside of Even’s head isn’t silent at all. It’s screaming, and everything inside him is screaming, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s what he needs, in this moment.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Even says.

Isak looks up at him. He must sense something strange in Even’s tone, because he frowns. “Yeah?”

Even takes in a deep breath. “There’s something I haven’t been telling you.”

Isak’s expression relaxes. Whatever he thinks about what Even just said, it must not be what he was most afraid of hearing, which Even doesn’t know how to feel about. “I know,” he says.

Even’s heartbeat jumps in his chest. “You do?”

Isak reaches out and takes hold of Even’s hand, squeezing around his fingers.

“What did I always say?” Isak says gently. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And he’s right, now that Even thinks about it. The last time he tried to hide something major from Isak, the last time he shied away from honesty for the sake of not hurting him, Isak said the same thing. Even’s done this before, and he should really, really know better by now; how does he not know better by now?

Under most other circumstances, he’d panic at the thought that he’s spent all this time trying to hide his truth from Isak and failed to realize how futile his efforts would be. That Isak’s spent this whole time seeing through his lies of omission, and that when they were younger he always did. But Isak is meeting his gaze steadily with his own calm stare, and somehow that fills him with something that feels very close to peace. Isak could have said something before now, but he didn’t. Which means he was letting Even come to terms with it on his own, giving him the space he needed so that he’d be able to say something when he was ready. Trusting him to know when that would be.

Even really doesn’t know how he earns the trust of the people he cares about when it seems like he’s done nothing to deserve it, but he supposes there’s nothing he can really do about it at this point.

“How’d you know?” Even says.

“That’s easy,” Isak says. “You’re still in high school, and you haven’t told me why yet.”

Even has to kick himself for that. It seems blatantly obvious, in hindsight.

“Maybe that’s where I should start, then,” Even says.

“You can start wherever you want,” Isak says. His grip tightens around Even’s hand. “I’m right here.”

Even can’t help but smile, at that. If that’s how Isak is going to use his words against him, he can do it all he wants.

The high school thing really does seem like as good a start as any, though, so that’s where he begins.

“I’m still in high school because I failed almost all of my classes last term,” Even says.

From the look on Isak’s face, he hadn’t expected to hear something like that. “Why?”

The answer to that question is long and boring and he’d rather say the actual thing he’d wanted to tell Isak before he gets into the details, but he supposes he can at least give a sanitized version of the clusterfuck his life has been these last six months before getting into that mess.

“Well, let’s see,” he says, ticking off reasons on his fingers. “There was a lot of pressure from my parents to get into a good film school, a lot of pressure from myself to get good grades to get into a good film school, an inability to cope with the pressure in healthy ways, a reliance on unhealthy coping mechanisms and an ugly falling out with Sonja that just made everything worse...” 

He’s mostly pulling direct quotes from what his therapists have said about the situation. It’s been a favorite topic of theirs, less so for him. Better to use their words, though, because if he used his, it would mostly just come down to, _I fucked up, and I didn’t know how to stop._

And he’s not sure he’s prepared for what Isak’s face would look like if he heard Even say something like that.

“Basically, everything fell to shit, and I couldn’t handle it,” Even says. “In summary.”

That’s already a hefty chunk of stuff he’s been keeping from Isak off his chest, and he sort of expected it to hurt, but it doesn’t. He mostly feels nothing at all.

He looks over at Isak, and stops in his tracks. Isak doesn’t look like he feels nothing. His eyes are wide and horrified. Why would he be horrified? Even doesn’t think it sounds that bad. It could certainly have been worse. That’s part of what makes him feel so guilty about the whole thing, that he could so easily fall apart because of something so insignificant.

“And you had to deal with that all on your own?” Isak says weakly.

At that, Even’s heart lurches painfully in his chest. He didn’t expect Isak to respond that way, although he doesn’t even know why he’s surprised, at this point. For a moment, he despairs. It seems inevitable, but still, how the fuck did Isak find a way to blame himself for _this_?

“Isak,” he says, “it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Isak says fiercely. Even can feel his hand shaking in his grip. “You shouldn’t have had to. If I’d - if I’d _known_ …”

He breaks off with a sharp gasp. Even doesn’t try to finish his sentence for him, because suddenly his head is entirely empty of words. 

Instead, he reaches out and wraps his arms around Isak, and he pulls him close.

Isak freezes in his grip for half a moment like he’s stunned, but he doesn’t push him away. It takes him another half moment to relax, but when he does he lets out a long exhale, and he brings his arms up around Even, fingers sliding into his hair and gripping the back of his shirt, and he clings. 

And Even clings back.

“I’m okay now,” he whispers. “I promise, I’m okay.”

It’s the first one he’s made in years that he actually believes in.

He doesn’t know how long it is before they pull away, but eventually, they do. Isak presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes and breathing slowly. Even keeps his eyes open. This feels too important to miss.

“There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Isak says.

Even’s breath falters in his lungs. It’s here, now, the moment he’s been anticipating and dreading this entire conversation. He doesn’t know why he was expecting Isak to just leave things where they were or why he thought Isak somehow _wouldn’t_ see there was more, but now that they’ve come to this point he doesn’t know what to do. The words are in his head because he’s rehearsed them a thousand times every night before falling asleep, but when he opens his mouth to say them, nothing comes out.

He swallows hard and pulls away. “Maybe.”

Isak’s eyes blink open. “That’s a yes in Even-speak,” he says.

Even chokes out a surprised laugh. “Even-speak?”

“Yeah, it’s its own language,” Isak says. “I’m the only person in the world who understands it.”

“Jesus,” Even says. “Don’t get all high and mighty about it.”

“I’ll do what I want,” Isak says. He frowns, then. “Fuck, that’s off-topic, isn’t it?”

Right. Even needs to focus. He exhales forcefully.

“There’s another reason why everything was so bad,” he says. “A really important one.”

Isak doesn’t answer. He nods, more patient than Even deserves. He wonders briefly if he’ll still be the same way when Even actually says it.

“It’s because - ” Fuck, this is hard. He breathes in and tries again. “It’s because…”

“Even,” Isak says. It’s one word, but somehow, it’s enough.

Even takes in another breath. This time, it’s easier.

“I’m ill,” Even says.

Isak’s eyes widen. “What?”

This is where Even falters again, because it’s not the word he meant to use, and it’s not the word Isak deserves to hear. He deserves the truth, the whole truth; Even almost dares to think they both do. But when it’s out there - when Even’s let it go - no matter what happens, _something_ will change, and even after all this time, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to find out what it is.

Someone’s phone starts ringing.

They both jump in their seats. It takes Even a blurry second to recognize that the ringtone isn’t his, just enough time for Isak to pull out his phone and all the color to drain from his face.

“It’s my father,” Isak says.

Even’s mind is not in the vicinity of being able to process everything that just happened. All that he knows is the unguarded fear in Isak’s eyes, and suddenly everything in his head makes awful, awful sense.

It’s this. Whatever this is, it’s what Isak’s been scared of this whole time.

The ringing stops. Not two seconds later, it starts up again. Even can just make out the word _Dad_ flashing across the screen.

“Fuck,” Isak says, voice shaking. “Fuck, goddammit. He’s not gonna leave me alone if I don’t pick up, is he?”

At this point, all of Even’s ability to think properly has flown straight out the window. He’s operating on pure instinct now, and instinct is what compels him to surge forward and cup Isak’s face between his hands and look into his eyes.

For a long moment, they don’t move. Nothing moves. Even wouldn’t give a fuck if it did, anyway, doesn’t give a fuck about anything right now except for the rhythm of Isak’s breathing against his skin, hard and fast and insistent. Right now, this is the only thing that makes sense to him. The only thing he can count on.

The seconds pass by, and Even holds on. He holds on like it’s the last thing he remembers how to do, and Isak breathes. And he breathes. 

And they breathe.

The phone starts ringing for a third time.

“Okay,” Isak whispers.

He breaks free from Even’s grip, and swipes at the phone’s screen. He brings it up to his ear and says, “Dad?”

And he leaves the room.

And Even’s arms fall back down to his sides.

-

When Isak sits back down, Even sees the look in his eyes, and he knows that it’s bad.

“What is it?” Even says. “Is everything okay?”

Isak shakes his head. Even’s eyes flicker down to the hand gripping his phone so tight the skin of his knuckles has turned pale.

“Talk to me,” Even says. The worry rolling around his gut is nauseating, but he forces it down. “Isak, please. Talk to me.”

Isak screws his eyes shut. “No,” he says, sounding hoarse. “No, you first. You need to finish what you were going to say - ”

As far as Even is concerned, his stupid ass issues can wait if Isak is this fucked up about whatever the hell just happened. “Isak,” he says, an edge of desperation slipping into his words, “your dad just called you three times in a row, and you look like you’re about to cry. Don’t tell me whatever’s going on isn’t urgent.”

“Even - ”

“It can wait,” Even says.

“No,” Isak says. “It can’t.”

“That’s my choice to make,” Even says. Stupid fucking choice it might be in this moment, but it’s still his. “Isn’t it?”

Isak doesn’t answer, just keeps his eyes closed. Even watches his jaw clench, watches his hands tighten into fists on his knees. Still, he says nothing.

Even swallows. “What happened?”

Isak presses his fists to his eyes, one hand still holding his phone, and takes in a loud, gasping breath. Even wants so badly to hold him again, to press him to his chest and keep him safe from the universe. But Isak isn’t in any place to be pulled suddenly into a hug, and anyway, how could Even keep him safe when he can’t even do the same for himself?

“I - ” Isak brings his hands down and looks at the floor. “I should have told you weeks ago, fuck.”

Even’s brain is seized with panic. “Should have told me what?”

“My mom’s been…” Isak’s fists ball up on his knees. “She’s not doing well.”

That’s nothing new; Isak’s mom hasn’t been doing well since long before Even moved away from Oslo. What’s new is the tone of Isak’s voice now as he utters that sentence, the rawness of his words. Whatever “not doing well” means now, it’s probably something much worse than before.

“She stopped seeing her psychiatrist a while ago,” Isak says hollowly. “And my dad says she’s in the hospital now.”

Even had no fucking idea.

“Isak,” he says, and he stops there because beyond that there are no words that would be remotely adequate.

“I shouldn’t have left home,” Isak says. “Or - or I should have gone back. I could have done something. I could have said something. _Fuck_ \- ”

He breaks off sharply. The silence aches in the wake of his words.

“Dad says I should go to the hospital,” Isak says. “But I don’t - I don’t know. I don’t _know_. It’s too late, isn’t it? It’s too fucking late. It’s exactly what I was scared of.”

He looks up at Even, and it occurs to Even that he should say something. That if he doesn’t, Isak will spiral further and further away from him, and then it really will be too late.

“Do you want to go to her?” Even says.

Isak lets out a shaky breath. “I think so.”

“Then it’s not too late,” Even says.

More silence, tense and brittle. Isak’s nostrils flare as he takes in another breath.

“And what about you?” Isak says. “What about what you were going to say?”

This would absolutely be the wrong time for that. Even shakes his head. “It can wait,” he repeats. “This is important to you.”

“And you don’t think you’re as important to me, too?” Isak says.

Silence in the room, silence in his head, silence in his heart. Utter, deafening silence.

“I don’t know,” Even says.

Hurt flashes across Isak’s face, and for a horrible second Even wonders why on earth he’d feel pain over something like that, until he realizes - it’s not pain for himself.

This time, it’s Even who looks away first. “You should go.”

“Even - ”

Isak’s phone buzzes. From the soft swear he lets out, it must not be good.

Even waits for him to leave.

A hand brushes the back of Even’s neck, thumb swiping over his cheekbone. The sudden touch sends a shiver down his spine, unbidden. He looks up at Isak, and the earnestness in his eyes hurts more than anything he’s seen his entire life.

“Come with me,” Isak says.

“What?” Even says, uncomprehending.

“Come with me,” Isak repeats. “Please, Even. I can’t - ”

He breaks off, takes in another breath. Even can’t breathe at all.

“I don’t want to do this without you,” Isak says.

The words are spoken softly, so out loud they sound small. Inside Even, though, they don’t feel that way at all. They lodge inside his heart and they swell, larger and larger until suddenly they’re the biggest words he’s ever held inside of himself. He’s never thought of himself as the kind of person who could or should be wanted like that, but in this moment, with Isak looking at him like he could change the fucking world, he doesn’t try to fight it.

Isak believes in Even, and Even believes in Isak, and for now, that’s just going to have to be enough.

“Okay,” Even says. “I’ll go with you.”

He doesn’t want to do this without him, either.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because before they were together like this -
> 
> Before they kissed -
> 
> Before Even left, and before he came back -
> 
> Before all of that, before everything, this is what Even was, and this is what he always will be.
> 
> His best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, everyone. <3

_iv._

The inside of Isak’s head is so quiet, it feels like the rest of the world should be like that, too.

But they’re standing on the tram, and it’s anything but. Conversations spin in and out of earshot, a whole whirlwind of noise he can’t keep up with. It jars him. Makes him feel a little less settled inside his own skin. This is just about the worst time to be on the tram, really, if he wanted quiet.

And fuck, he wants it so bad right now it almost hurts. Maybe the quiet would feel a little like peace, and that might sound stupid but right now he doesn’t have enough room inside him to want anything else.

Because the thing is, he doesn’t think he’s ever really known what it’s like to feel that way. What it’s like to just let yourself be. Without your thoughts racing forward at the speed of light, without the loudness of the world drowning out the stillness inside you. The quiet filling up your lungs like air, like it was meant to be there.

And nothing inside your head. No fear. No guilt.

(Nothing but silence.)

Then again, it seems kind of pointless wishing for things he can’t have. He’s spent his whole life doing that, and it never got him anywhere. Maybe he should focus on other things. More important things. Things he can actually do something about.

Maybe he should focus on Even.

Right now, Even’s gripping the pole between them tightly, knuckles pale in the overhead light. He looks tired, shadows prominent under his eyes and shoulders hunched forward. All folded in on himself. He’s looking at the ground, eyes flickering to the window, to the wall. Anywhere but Isak.

Now that he’s started, Isak can’t look anywhere else.

Guilt is a familiar feeling, and for the last few hours of his life it’s pretty much the only thing he’s thought about. This is what he feels guiltiest about, though. More than the stupid shit he said when he thought that was the stuff he was supposed to say. More than the things he did when he was young and selfish and lonelier than anything. Maybe even more than the things he didn’t do.

None of that compares to seeing the way Even looks now, and wondering why it took so long for him to notice.

Even lets out a low sigh. His eyes flicker up to Isak’s.

“Are you going to say anything?”

The question is spoken quietly, and Isak thinks if anyone else was trying to catch his words in the midst of the crowd they’d probably lose them easily. He’s not anyone else, though. He’s had years of practice when it comes to listening to the words Even says. He’s got even more when it comes to listening to the words he doesn’t.

(He’s spent years not listening to Even, too. That, for some reason, says the most.)

“Do you want me to?” Isak says.

“I don’t know,” Even says. The skin between his brows is creased. “Do you?”

Isak doesn’t know, either. Doesn’t know if there’s anything he can say.

So what does he know?

He knows he has even more questions than before.

He knows that he wants to hear Even’s answers to them, because anything he has to say would be much better than the thousands of possibilities Isak’s brain could come up for him.

He knows it kills him, actually kind of rips his insides apart a little, to see Even like this, all quiet and uncertain and doubtful about a million things Isak probably can’t even begin to guess at, and not be able to do anything about it.

He also knows none of that matters, in the long run. If Even needs him to, Isak will wait. He’d wait for Even until the end of time.

He knows this more than anything, simply because he already has.

“I’m pretty sure anything I could think to say right now would just make me sound like a complete idiot,” Isak says.

Even chokes out a surprised laugh. “Such little faith in yourself, Isak,” he says.

Isak feels the corner of his mouth twitch up, despite himself. “Well,” he says. “In any case, I don’t think I should be the one saying things, right now.”

Even’s tentative smile disappears as quickly as it came. His expression settles into something almost uncharacteristically somber.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“You were right, earlier.” Isak looks down at the ground. “It’s your choice to talk about it, whatever it is. And I want to listen.”

Now, Even’s the one who’s staring at him, and Isak can feel it even if he doesn’t see it.

“Don’t you have questions?” Even says. “Aren’t you - aren’t you upset?”

Of course Isak has questions. He’s had questions ever since Even came crashing back into his life on a day that feels like forever ago. Maybe he had them even before then. That hasn’t changed.

Another thing that hasn’t changed is this:

Even has the right to tell his own story, and Isak wants him to have it.

Upset? Maybe so. Maybe he’s been upset his whole damn life.

At Even? No.

(He never was.)

“There’s so much happening right now,” Isak says. “And I - I haven’t stopped to think about it at all because there’s been no fucking time. But that’s, you know, that’s what I want to give to you. I want to give you my time, because I haven’t given you enough of it.”

There’s four years’ worth of time he never gave to Even.

He hazards a glance at Even. Almost looks away, but doesn’t, because Even’s eyes are wide and bright and so earnest Isak’s entire chest aches.

“I almost thought you’d be angry,” Even says.

Isak would laugh at the ridiculousness of the thought if it didn’t hurt so fucking much. “Angry?”

“Because I was lying to you,” Even says. His voice is steady, gaze steadier. Isak would almost buy it if he couldn’t see the trembling of his fingers around the pole between them.

“Even,” he says, past the lump in his throat, “you didn’t - ”

“No, I did,” Even says. “And it wasn’t an accident. I chose to.”

It’s clearly something he believes in very much, if the firmness of his voice is anything to go by.

“Even, I - ” Isak breaks off, frustrated at the inadequacy of words. He takes in a breath and tries again. “I’m angrier at myself.”

Silence between them, for a moment.

Not in the rest of the tram. The sound of laughter floats across the noise around them from a source Isak can’t identify. It’s unsettling, strangely, even though it’s such an innocuous noise. It’s discomfiting not to know where it came from.

“Why?” Even says quietly.

Because something Isak did, and to be fair, he can think of a great deal of things that would qualify, made Even lose his trust in him.

(Isak can relate. He hasn’t trusted himself in years.)

“I lied to you, too,” Isak says instead. Between the fuck-up he doesn’t have a name for and the fuck-up Even already knows about, this seems like the easier admission to make.

Even’s eyebrows shoot up. “About what?”

“I never told you about my family bullshit,” Isak says. “Not really.”

Even purses his lips. “Isak,” he says, “I...”

Here, he falters, breath stumbling over the words like an aborted thought. Isak’s had plenty of those, himself. He gets it.

“I never talked about it,” Isak says. “Right? Even when we were kids. I never said a damn word.”

Even says nothing to that. Only stares.

Isak stares back defiantly. Not against Even. If he’s defiant of anything, it’s the years between them. His own selfish mistakes.

(Himself, most of all.)

“It just - it felt so big, you know?” He lets out a laugh he doesn’t really feel. “And I felt so fucking small. But with you - ”

He sucks in a breath, air prickling at his lungs, and wills the heat behind his eyes to settle down.

“With you,” he says, “I never felt small at all.”

Stupid. It sounds so stupid out loud. But he needs to say it, needs Even to know what he’s done for him. How much he means to Isak. What he means to him.

Because before they were together like this -

Before they kissed -

Before Even left, and before he came back -

Before all of that, before everything, this is what Even was, and this is what he always will be.

His best friend.

That means a lot. It means so much, feels so immense inside of him, he doesn’t know how to say it out loud. Doesn’t know how to do it justice, or how to do Even justice. Even deserves so much fucking more than his words could ever give him.

But still, he has to try.

Isak looks up. Even’s staring again, openly.

“Isak,” he says on a soft exhale, as if in disbelief. His name trembles in the air between them.

“I think I should have,” Isak says. His words are trembling inside his heart, too. “I should have said something. It was selfish, wasn’t it?”

Because that’s all he is, and that’s all he’s ever been. He’s not brave; he’s not someone to be proud of. How could anyone be proud of someone who’s spent his whole life running away from himself?

Even lets out a breath.

“Isak,” he says, “I never expected a single thing from you.”

His eyes are so gentle in this moment, despite the circumstances, despite everything, Isak can hardly stand it.

(He doesn’t deserve it.)

“You know that, right?” Even continues. “You have a right to your own feelings. They’re not selfish, they’re not wrong. They just are.”

Isak swallows.

“Do you know that about yours?” he says.

At that, Even’s breath hitches, and for a moment Isak registers none of the noise or people or chaos around them. Can focus on nothing but that sound, nothing but Even. For a moment, they’re not on a crowded tram. For a moment, it’s them. Just them.

Them and the quiet.

The tram starts to slow down, then, and dimly Isak recognizes that if they don’t move soon, they’re going to miss their stop.

Even reaches for Isak’s hand, fingers sliding easily through the spaces. The touch happens so quickly it almost feels like it should be unexpected, but it’s not. Even squeezes gently, the warmth of his palm reliable against Isak’s skin, and shit, maybe he never needed the quiet. Not when he has this.

“Come on,” Even says, pulling them toward the door.

For once, Isak doesn’t think about letting go.

-

In the waiting room of the hospital, his father is nowhere to be seen. It shouldn't be a surprise. It shouldn't even be a disappointment. Yet here he is, regardless. His entire self filled with so much disappointment it makes him want to scream.

At this point, though, there’s nothing to do but to wait. Wait for news, wait for his mother, wait for his father. Whatever. It’s nothing new. Isak’s spent his whole fucking life waiting. For other people, for something to happen. For himself sometimes, too.

Even’s fingers are still tight around his. They let go of each other a few times, mostly when maneuvering streets or talking to the doctors, but when they sat down Even reached out again, and Isak didn’t pull away. He needs it more than he’d care to admit. Needs Even’s touch, his presence. The tangible reminder that “alone” isn’t really a word that applies to him anymore, not if he doesn’t want it to.

It took him so long to learn that. Years, really. And maybe he still has a hard time wrapping his head around the concept, but he’s getting there, isn’t he? He’s trying. He’s trying so fucking hard.

He looks over at Even. The hand that isn’t holding Isak’s is resting on Even’s leg, fingers tapping against his thigh in an almost agitated rhythm, and his gaze is turned to the floor. Here it is again, yet another version of him Isak isn’t used to seeing. The version of him that’s all closed in on himself, tension tight in his shoulders and mouth downturned in a way that just feels so _wrong_. And his fingers squeezing around Isak’s hand, like he’s clutching to the edge of a cliff. Like if he lets go, he’ll never be able to hold on again.

Isak sees him, and he thinks, maybe Even needs this, too.

And the thought comforts him, somehow, even as it fills him with a sadness he can’t explain.

Isak lets his thumb skim over the inside of Even’s wrist. “Are you okay?”

Slowly, as if it’s almost painful, Even looks away from the ground and at Isak. He smiles weakly.

“I, uh,” he says. “I’m not too fond of hospitals.”

Isak’s stomach drops. It hadn’t even occurred to him when Even said he was ill, and he doesn’t even know everything that entails, but goddamn, it should have. It really should have.

(It blows him the fuck away, sometimes, the depth of his own selfishness.)

“Shit,” he says. “Fucking hell, Even, you didn’t have to come if - ”

“It’s okay,” Even says. “I wanted to.”

The smile on his face grows into something that’s soft and real. Isak doesn’t deserve it, hardly even deserves to look at it. He turns his gaze to the floor, swallowing hard.

“If you need anything,” he says. “If you need to go - ”

“Isak,” Even says.

Something in his voice is compelling enough to make Isak look at him again. Even looks back with quiet eyes and a quieter smile.

“I said it once, and I’ll say it as many times as I have to,” he says. “I’m right here.”

Isak doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t have an answer that would do something like that justice. Words stopped feeling like enough long ago. Hardly anything feels like enough, anymore.

But the silence is calm between them, and he’s calm inside himself, too. That already feels like a small miracle.

Isak ducks his head down.

“As many times as you have to,” he repeats. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

He glances up at Even, who shrugs and gives him a small smile. “As long as you hear me,” he says.

Years, they’ve known each other. A whole decade of Isak’s life. And after all this time, Even still finds new ways to take his breath away.

By far the most breathtaking thing about Even is how he finds weight in the small things - the finer details. Isak may poke fun at him for being as prone to melodramatics as the movies he loves, but really, he’s prone to this, too. To noticing the spaces between them, the cracks in Isak’s words. To giving the silence a meaning of his own.

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Isak says.

Even hums tunelessly. “No?”

“I heard you every time,” Isak says.

Even’s fingertips brush warmly across the back of his hand. “Who’s being dramatic now?”

Isak lets out a strangled laugh. “Shut up.”

A fragment of a smile tugs at the corner of Even’s mouth. It almost hurts to see the way his grins have turned to pieces.

“Are _you_ okay?” Even says.

How many times has Even asked him that question over the course of their lives? When they were kids, he asked it every five minutes, it seemed like. After a particularly grueling bike race, or before every stupid game they made up together. Every single day, he asked that question. Sometimes, when Isak fell and scraped his knees roughly on the pavement, or when he got a particularly bad mark in class, or on the most difficult of sleepless nights, it seemed like the only thing Even knew how to say.

And every time he asked, Isak never gave it much thought. Even back then, it was easier not to.

Or maybe he did think about it. Maybe he thought about it too much, maybe he buried the truth inside himself with all the things that were supposed to be easier to say. In the end, though, none of the words inside him did what he thought they’d do, and it turns out the word he always thought he’d have the most trouble saying is the one that comes out of him now.

“No,” Isak says.

He almost expects pity from Even. Or shock, maybe, or even pain. But Even’s expression softens, and all Isak sees in his eyes is understanding.

“Are you upset about your parents?” Even says.

That question feels like it should be even harder to answer. And fuck, maybe it is. He’s spent months - years, if he’s being honest with himself - of his life wondering the same thing.

“The whole thing’s a shitshow,” Isak says, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “And I just…”

He trails off, unsure for a moment whether he should go on. It’s an ugly thing he wants to say. A lot of his truths are.

He can feel Even’s eyes on him, still. No pressure. He’s there.

He’s just there.

“It’s my fault,” Isak says. “At least some of it. Maybe I’m not the reason it was bad in the first place, but I’m the reason it got worse.”

(He could say that about a lot of things.)

Even squeezes his hand tighter.

“What happened?” he says quietly.

The truth that answers that question is even uglier.

Isak squeezes his eyes shut. If he doesn’t have to see Even’s face when he says it, maybe he can pretend that it isn’t.

“Well, at some point my dad got tired of my mom's shit and decided to fuck off,” Isak says. He doesn’t remember if he said even that much to Even. “Or that’s what I figure, anyway. I don’t pretend to know what he was thinking. But he was taking care of her for a while, and then he wasn’t. Which fucked her up really badly.”

It fucked Isak up, too, but that probably just goes without saying.

“So for a while,” he continues, “it was up to me. Making sure she took her meds and went to her appointments and just. Wasn’t alone, I guess.”

He swallows hard.

“I mean, it wasn’t just up to me,” he says. “Sometimes, he came back to check up on her. And there were, like, doctors and shit. I don’t know. I think I made it sound worse than it was. It was good a lot of the time. We - we had some really good times, you know? I think in some ways it was even better without him in the house. Less screaming to deal with, anyway.”

That last sentence is meant to sound like a joke. He can’t quite bring himself to laugh.

“And sometimes it wasn’t so good,” he says. “Sometimes…”

(Sometimes it felt like being buried alive.)

“Sometimes it was pretty bad,” he says. His ribcage feels hollowed out by the words. “And I hated being in that house, those times. Hated the way it felt, hated how I couldn’t make it stop because making it stop meant leaving, and I couldn’t leave if I wanted her to be okay.”

He’s not sure how he’s still talking. He’s never said any of this out loud before, never thought he was capable of it. Somehow, he is. So he keeps on talking.

“But I think,” he says, “most of all...”

He forces himself to think about the time between the day his dad left and the day he left. He hasn’t thought about it in ages, but the memories come to the forefront of his mind almost without trying. The good days, the days that were calm enough he didn’t have to pay attention to what his mother said so he didn’t, just lazed around playing video games or messaging his friends and nodding along absently to her rambling. The not so good days, when all he wanted was to get out of the house and hang out with the boys but he couldn’t, and the injustice of it burned so brightly in his chest it turned to impatience, and then to resentment. The worst days, when he shut himself in his room and turned his music up loud and pretended he was the only person in the whole fucking world.

“I think, most of all,” he says, “I hated who I was when I was with her.”

He takes in a rough breath and opens his eyes, not quite able to resist checking for Even’s reaction to that, dreading seeing it all at once.

He turns his head toward Even, and Even’s still looking at him. Looking at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Looking at him like he’ll disappear if he glances away. And now Isak can’t look away either. He feels caught in Even’s gaze, but that’s okay, because right now he doesn’t want to be let go.

“So I left,” Isak says. “And that was it.”

It’s not the most eloquent ending to a story, but Isak can’t come up with anything better.

For a moment, neither of them say anything, and neither of them look away. Even’s hand is still in his. Neither of their palms are sweating.

“Do you…” Even glances down, briefly, before looking back up. “Do you wish you hadn’t left?”

He didn’t, for a long while. The guilt was there because it always was, but if he pushed it away, if he ignored his parents’ messages, if he put everything he should do off, he could at least pretend he’d think about it another day.

It’s not the only time he’s dealt with his feelings like that, he can admit that much to himself. But that’s exactly why he should have known better. Tucking the guilt into the back of his mind didn’t mean that it went away. It just meant that if it got worse, he wouldn’t notice. Not until it was far too late.

(And he didn’t.

He didn’t.)

Then again, he doesn’t actually know if he does wish he hadn’t left now. It gets kind of difficult, these days, to separate his desires from his shame. All the thoughts of what he _should_ want.

If there’s anything he knows he regrets, though, it’s this.

“I wish that I was there when she needed me,” Isak says.

(It’s always been that.)

“Do you think it’s too late?” Even says. “For the both of you, I mean?”

He’s searching for something, Isak can tell. Isak doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He doesn’t know If he can give it to him. He doesn’t even know the actual answer to the question, regardless of if it’s what Even wants to find or not.

“I hope not,” Isak says.

When it comes to that question, that’s the only truth he can count on.

“Me, too,” Even says softly. For a moment Isak almost thinks they’re talking about something else entirely. Then Even reaches out, cupping the back of Isak’s neck with his other hand so he can lean their foreheads together, and Isak doesn’t think at all.

“I’m glad you told me,” Even says.

He pulls away almost as quickly, but just those few seconds were enough. Somehow, Even always knows how to give him enough to make it that much easier to breathe.

Still. The loosening of his chest doesn’t make everything go away.

“I should have told you sooner,” Isak says.

“It’s okay,” Even says. “You told me when you were ready.”

Isak considers this.

“You too, you know that, right?” he says.

Even blinks at him. “What?”

“I mean,” Isak says, “if you still think I’m angry at you for not telling me you were ill, or for not telling me what it is… that’s why I’m not.”

“Yeah?” Even says uncertainly.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me anything before you’re ready, either,” Isak says.

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. When they do, Even’s eyes widen and his breath freezes, like he’s taken aback. Like he never expected Isak to say something like that.

Why not, though? Why not, when just the moment before Even said the same exact thing?

And now it falls into place, a little. Because if Even said he should have told him about - whatever it is he has to tell him about sooner, Isak’s answer wouldn’t change. If Even wondered whether it was too late, Isak would say, never, because at this point he knows that when it comes to them, there is no such thing.

If Even thought Isak hated him for this, Isak would say, impossible, because there is not a single part of Even he could hate. And there never was. And there never will be.

But does Even himself know any of that?

(Does Isak know?)

“Oh,” Even says faintly.

Isak squeezes his hand. “Are you ready?”

Even purses his lips. “I… I don’t know.”

His uncertainty doesn’t surprise Isak anymore.

“That’s okay,” Isak says. “I’ll be here when you are.” Just like Even always said.

Though that, for some reason, seems to stun Even the most. He breathes in shakily.

“Isak, you’re - ” Even’s voice cracks. “You’re incredible.”

Isak doesn’t try to counter that, doesn’t try to tell Even there’s no way he could be when he’s never in his life felt like he was.

“You are, too,” he says instead.

It’s the answer he should have given all along.

-

Twenty minutes later, his father still hasn’t arrived.

Isak is starting to wonder why they’re here in the first place. As a minor, there’s very little he’s actually capable of doing on the behalf of his mom. He supposes he mostly wanted to feel like he was doing something, especially after so long of not doing anything at all. He’s not sure that this is much better, though.

Even’s been quiet for a while, though he hasn’t taken his hand from Isak’s yet. His thumb is moving slowly over Isak’s skin. The feeling of it is a constant reminder that he doesn’t actually regret being here too much.

And here’s not as bad as he imagined. There’s a few other people in the room with them, but everyone keeps to themselves, some with headphones plugged in, some quietly talking to each other, some just staring at the muted television mounted on the wall. If either of them wanted to say something, no one would hear. Not that he’d care all that much, at this point. Maybe once, he might have, but now he can think of at least a dozen things that are more important to him.

“Can I ask you something?” Isak says, turning his gaze toward Even.

Even looks back. “Yeah?”

“Your illness,” Isak says.

Even straightens in his seat, and says nothing. Isak recognizes the sudden wariness in his eyes. It only aches a little.

“Is there anything I can do to help you with it?” Isak says.

Maybe there isn’t. The things he does know about it - that, in combination with a lot of other things, it was probably a major reason why Even struggled so much last term; that Even’s been dealing with it for years (or more accurately, longer than Isak can truly fathom); that Even possibly has more difficulty talking about it than a lot of other things, because Isak thinks (or, at least, he’d like to think) Even can and has come to him about a lot of things without much thought, but with this he still can’t seem to say it out loud - don’t exactly point to something that’s easy to deal with. Still, the least Isak can do is ask. That seems a marginally better solution than making even more assumptions.

It’s a small thing he said, but Even’s eyes widen as if he just spoke gospel. Honestly, it makes Isak feel worse. If something that insignificant is enough to take Even aback, that just means Isak hasn’t said enough important things to him.

“Isak,” Even says, “believe me, you’ve already done so much.”

(But how? How could he have done anything when he didn’t fucking _know_?)

Even must see the confusion on his face, because he squeezes his hand and leans forward.

“Should I tell you how?” Even says quietly. “Should I lay out all the ways you’ve been with me since the first day we met, Isak? How you’ve seen me at my best and at my worst and at all the stages in between? When I’m with you, I’m not always happy, but when I’m with you I don’t have to be. You’d put up with me anyway.”

Isak frowns. He has a lot he could say to all of that. He chooses the most pressing concern to address. “I don’t put up with you,” he says.

Even’s silent for a moment.

“No?” he says.

“You make it sound like you’re a burden or something,” Isak says. “Like being your friend or your - like being there for you is a burden.”

Something strange and unnameable flickers across Even’s face. “It isn’t?”

“No,” Isak says. The word feels thick in his throat, stuck in the sudden misery that’s rising up in his chest like the tide. “It could never be, Even, okay? It could never.”

“You say that,” Even says slowly. “You say that, and you don’t even know - ”

“And why, Even?” Isak says. “Why don’t I know?”

Even falls silent.

Isak turns his gaze to the floor. He can feel himself blinking rapidly, prickling heat building and building behind his eyes. He doesn’t want it.

“I’m not - ” Isak inhales shakily. “It’s not that I’m mad at you for not saying anything. I just - ”

His breath catches in his throat. He swallows it down forcefully.

“Is it something I did?” he says. “Is it something I said? What did I do to make you believe I could ever think you’re a burden?”

The words scrape his insides raw.

Even is still holding his hand. His fingers have become motionless.

“You didn’t do anything,” he says hoarsely.

Isak squeezes his eyes shut.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sounds about right.”

Silence.

Then -

“I’m sorry.”

Isak’s eyes flutter open. He looks at Even in disbelief. “ _You’re_ sorry?”

There’s a certain kind of sadness in Even’s eyes as he reaches out with his other hand and cups Isak’s jaw hesitantly, like he might fracture Isak’s bones if he’s not careful.

(Joke’s on him; maybe Isak was already broken.)

“I made you feel like you weren’t enough,” Even says.

His voice is so soft and fragile. Maybe he feels like he’s cracking open, too.

Isak covers Even’s hand with his own, pressing it closer to his face. The warmth under and over his skin fills him not with comfort, exactly, because he doesn’t think he’s capable of feeling something like that right now, but with something akin to familiarity. He knows what this is like, viscerally well.

“If that’s how I feel,” Isak says, “it’s not because of you.”

Even lets out a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving.

“Regardless,” he says. “You are enough.”

It occurs to Isak, the thought dim and blurry around the edges as if it’s happening to someone else, that from the outside looking in, this must look objectively ridiculous. Two boys sitting next to each other, holding hands between them, their other hands pressed to one of their faces. There’s a lot of things they’ve done throughout the course of their relationship that might be considered ridiculous.

The look in Even’s eyes isn’t ridiculous. It’s gentle. It’s filled with quiet conviction.

It’s honesty.

There’s a lot of things Isak doesn’t trust, most of them inside himself. Even’s honesty isn’t one of them.

Isak doesn’t look away from Even. Not when he takes ahold of the hand on his cheek. Not when he brings it to his mouth. Not when he presses a kiss to the skin of Even’s palm.

“You are, too,” Isak says.

And now there’s something else in Even’s eyes, something so unbearably soft it almost hurts to look at. Isak looks anyway.

“Isak,” Even says. “I - ”

Isak’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

Instinctively, Isak drops the hand he’s got pressed to his cheek. He pulls out the phone with shaking fingers, starts shaking even more when he sees who it is.

It’s his father.

Isak glances at Even. Even gazes back steadily.

“I’ll be here when you come back,” he says.

And it’s enough to hear that.

It’s enough.

Isak squeezes Even’s fingers one more time, and lets go.

(It won’t be the last time.)

-

“Hello?” he says into the phone once he’s out in the hallway.

“Hello, Isak.”

For so long, Isak did everything he could to avoid hearing that voice. Today, he’s heard it twice.

“Hey, dad,” he says, hating himself a little for the way his voice trembles on the words. “What’s wrong?”

(It probably says a lot that that’s his first instinct over something like _how are you?_ )

“Ah,” his father says. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it today.”

Not a surprise. Not even in the fucking slightest.

(He tries to remind himself of that through the fire burning in his chest.)

“Okay,” Isak says. He can’t help but be impressed with how level he manages to keep his voice. “Why?”

“I can come tomorrow. I’ll have more time, anyway, to set everything in order.”

“Why?” Isak repeats.

Tense silence, for a few seconds. Isak feels it like an itch under his skin.

“Something came up at work, and I can’t leave until late tonight.”

Like this is just a mildly unfortunate cancellation he has to make.

“Right,” Isak says. “Yeah, of course.”

“I’m sorry, Isak.”

“I’m not the person you should be saying that to,” Isak says.

An exhale.

“Regardless. I really am sorry.”

(For as much good as that will do.)

“There’s not a lot I can do without you here, is there?” Isak says.

“No, I suppose not.”

Isak brings a hand to his forehead, rubbing the skin there forcefully. Like if he digs in hard enough the tension will go away and he’ll be able to think properly, and then he could actually say something useful for a change. At the least, it would be satisfying to be able to yell at his father. Something, really. Anything.

“Why’d you ask me to come, then?” Isak says.

A pause, probably uncomfortable for the both of them.

“I thought I could come, too. Believe me, I did. I just thought it might be nice for you to see your mother, after…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

(The sentence doesn’t have to be an accusation for Isak to feel it like one.)

“I don’t think that would help,” Isak says. “Not right now.”

Another long sigh.

“No?”

Isak swallows. “I can’t, anyway. Doctors said she’s in stable condition now, but it’s not visiting hours. We’d have to come back later.”

“Ah.”

Isak wonders, for a moment, if his father actually has anything useful to say.

(He wonders that about himself, too.)

“Do you need anything else?” Isak says.

A moment of quiet. He doesn’t expect an actual response. It’s kind of fucked, though, that he’s the one who has to ask it. He doesn’t trust his father to think of it.

There’s some soft noises from the other end Isak can’t make out. Then, an inscrutable sound from his father.

“You know,” he says, “she still loves you.”

Isak’s breath freezes in his chest.

“What?” he says, trying not to choke on the word. Not really sure if he actually succeeded.

“We talk, sometimes.” As if that somehow explains everything.

“Is she…” Isak swallows again, hard. “Is she angry I didn’t answer her messages? That I didn’t visit?”

“I don’t know.” A breath. “I think, um… I think she was sad, mostly. Not about that, but. You know.”

(Isak knows.)

“And you?” he says. “Are you angry?”

Nothing, for a few moments.

Then -

“Have you considered moving back home, Isak? I think your mother would like that. Who knows, maybe it might even help.”

And there it is.

He’s tired. God, he’s so fucking tired. It weighs on him like a damn ghost sometimes.

“Have you?” Isak says. He doesn’t give a shit anymore about not sounding accusatory. He hopes his father hears it and knows that he means it.

“I… I don’t think that’d be for the best.”

Isak takes in a deep breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

He can practically visualize his father’s frown, here. “What do you mean?”

Isak thinks about what he said to Even earlier, that he hated the person he was around his mother. He thinks about how in that house, with just her for company, he became snappy and reticent. Unhappy, most of all. He thinks about the person he is when he isn’t in that house. How much clearer his head feels, how much easier it is to believe he’s capable of honesty. He thinks about the fact that none of that is his mother’s fault, even if once upon a time he thought it was. Even if once upon a time he’d do anything not to blame it on himself.

(Though in the end he ended up doing that anyway.)

It’s not his mother’s fault that he’s got so much shit tied up in the walls of that house, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s still there.

He frowns at the cracked wall in front of him. Kicks at it lightly, wonders if that will in any way dislodge the words he needs from the inside of his head so he can actually say them out loud. He can pretend, at least.

“I want her to be okay,” he says. His chest aches, vaguely. “And it was wrong of me to ignore her messages. It was selfish. But… but I don’t regret moving out.”

He thought he should for the longest time. But regardless of whether he should or shouldn’t have, of all the things he has ever held guilt inside of him for, this wasn’t one of them. It never was.

His father hums. “Why not?”

“You said I should move back home, right?” Isak says.

“Yes?”

“I don’t think of that house as my home anymore,” he says.

He’s thought that for a long time. Sometimes, he thought it with the most vindictive satisfaction. Sometimes, he thought it with regret, the kind of guilt that weighs you down and makes it near impossible to breathe.

Right now, he doesn’t really feel much of anything when he says it out loud. It’s a thing he can’t change, even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to.

To his father’s credit, he doesn’t laugh as Isak half-expected him to. He just makes a considering sound.

“So where is your home, then?”

A place where his head is clear instead of foggy. A place where he can forget what unhappiness tastes like, if only for a little while. A place where he can be honest.

(His answer to that question has been the same for more than half his life.)

Isak takes in a shaky breath.

“Dad,” he says, “I have something to tell you.”

-

When he comes back to the waiting room, Even’s hunched over a small notebook resting on his knee, pen in hand and scribbling something Isak can’t decipher from this distance. He wonders where the notebook came from, if Even’s had it with him this whole time. He’s not going to ask. It’s just more things he’s never going to know about Even.

It’s not with regret that he has that thought. Maybe once upon a time, he might have. He always figured if there was anyone in his life he was going to know everything about, it’d be his best friend. That’s probably what made it so easy to give up on Even in the years they spent apart, every passing day another reminder that the list of things he didn’t know about Even was expanding too fast for him to keep up with. Like the more he didn’t know, the further apart they would grow.

Four years of things he doesn’t know about Even, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s in front of him right now.

“Hey,” Isak says as he approaches.

Even looks up at him and smiles. He flips his book closed, the cover a dark shade of green. “Hey. How’d it go?”

Isak runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“We’ll come back another day, I guess,” Isak says.

He waits for his brain to supply him with thoughts of how yet again, he failed to help his mother in any real way. How all he managed to accomplish was wasting Even’s time and ruining his chance to say something important. How useless this whole endeavor was.

They don’t come.

Maybe it’s because it already feels like a huge thing to admit that there will be another day. It’s as good a theory as any, though he supposes he’ll never know for sure. That’s okay, he thinks.

He doesn’t know when he stopped looking for reasons in things, but he’s pretty okay with that, too.

Even nods, tucking his notebook into the pocket of his jacket. “I could use the walk.”

Isak holds out his hand, and Even takes it.

(It isn’t the last time.)

-

Even hasn’t said anything about it, but Isak can tell he doesn’t want to go home quite yet. So they start walking down a street neither of them know, and Isak doesn’t question it. There are things that matter to him more than wherever it is they’ll end up, be that ten minutes from now or ten years.

Even’s got his head tilted back toward the overcast sky. Isak can’t pretend anymore that he’s not looking. The fact that neither of them are properly paying attention to where they’re going probably isn’t safe, but Isak can’t be bothered to give a shit, not when Even looks this achingly beautiful in the grey daylight.

“I did something kind of stupid earlier, when I was on the phone with my dad,” Isak says.

Even straightens his head and turns his gaze toward Isak. “Did you?”

“Well,” Isak says. “Maybe not like that. I don’t regret it, at least.”

Even hums thoughtfully. “But?”

“I was, uh… Kind of avoiding one of his questions?” Isak snorts. “Now, _that_ one was stupid. I don’t know what he was expecting me to say.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him about us,” Isak says. “Told him we were together, now.”

Even’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did you really?”

“Yeah,” Isak says.

“How’d he feel about it?”

“Pretty surprised,” Isak says, shrugging. “I kind of forgot he didn’t even know you were back from Stavanger, honestly. I guess there’s a lot of things I didn’t tell him yet. He asked if I was joking, at first. Figured out pretty quickly I wasn’t and then kind of just. Moved on, I guess.”

Even nods, considering.

“How do you feel about it?” he says.

It was…

Kind of underwhelming, if Isak is going to be honest.

He always envisioned telling his father something like this to be rather life-changing. Like if he was a character in a video game, this choice would be the turning point, and from here on out all his enemies would be easy to slay. A weight lifted off his shoulders, perhaps. God knows it hasn’t been easy to tell the other people in his life about being with Even.

It wasn’t easy this time. But ultimately, it doesn’t really matter how his father felt about it. The more important thing was saying it in the first place.

“I think I’m okay,” Isak says.

Even nods. “Good.”

Isak tilts his head. “And what about you? What were you doing while I was gone?”

Even’s silent, for a moment. He turns his face toward the ground.

“I was thinking about something you said earlier,” Even says. He starts swinging their intertwined hands back and forth between them slowly, like he can’t keep still.

“Uh oh,” Isak says.

Even laughs softly, squeezing Isak’s hand. “It’s nothing bad,” he says reassuringly. “Nothing you say is bad.”

This is a categorical lie, but Isak doesn’t argue. “Go on,” he says.

“I was thinking about how you said you wish you’d been there for your mom when she needed you,” Even says.

The words twist painfully at Isak’s heart. He hates hearing them out loud. Even if Even’s voice softens the edges of them, they’re still jagged, ugly things.

“Yeah?” he says.

“I was thinking about the idea of needing people,” Even says. “And how it’s true that we rely on other people a lot, and it’s okay to do that. But also how unfair it can be, sometimes, when the need you have for someone else outweighs what they need. And how when that happens, if they decide it’s too much, you can’t really begrudge them for that. You just have to let them go.”

He takes in a long breath.

“And then I was thinking,” he says, “about how there was a time when you _were_ there for her. No matter what happened after that, it’s true that for a certain time, you were there. And that’s what matters, in the end. Not the absences. I mean - ” here, he gives a self-deprecating laugh “ - I can’t read your mom’s mind, but… but if I were her, I’d still appreciate the time you did give. It would still _mean_ something.”

He looks at Isak, tilting his head in appraisal, and Isak is sure his lungs stopped working long ago. Now, they feel even tighter in his chest.

“Does that make sense?” Even says quietly.

“Yeah,” Isak says. His voice cracks on the syllable. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Good.” Even turns his head forward, mouth curved upward in something that’s not quite a smile. It bothers Isak to see something like that, more than it should. It bothers him more that Even said all that with a tired sort of conviction. Not even like he believed in his words. More like he _knew_ them. Like they were the law of the universe.

(The thing is, Isak doesn’t believe in a lot of things anymore; the concept of anything being a universality is one of them.)

“Is that what you think is going to happen to us?” Isak says.

“What do you mean?” Even says.

“That we’ll have to let each other go one day, too,” Isak says.

Even doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

Something inside Isak cracks, just a little.

He doesn’t know if he can fix it, if there are any words in the world that could fix something like this.

But he has to try, doesn’t he?

Fuck, he has to try.

“I was thinking about something, too,” Isak says.

Even raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

Isak turns his gaze to the ground in front of them.

“I’ve never hated the person I am when I’m around you,” he says.

Even doesn’t answer for a long while. Isak doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t try to figure out what he’s feeling or thinking. He figures that right now, those feelings and thoughts belong to Even, and Even alone.

The seconds pass by. Isak doesn’t count them.

Finally, Even lets out a trembling exhale, fragile in the cold autumn air. He turns toward Isak, and smiles.

“Hey,” he says. “Guess what I can see up there?”

Isak glances toward the end of the street. And stares.

“It’s a playground,” he says.

“Yeah.” Even’s grip around his hand grows a fraction tighter. “Want to go check it out?”

Whatever the circumstances, in this moment Isak can’t imagine not following Even wherever he goes.

“Why the fuck not,” he says.

(Still. That’s about as ringing an endorsement as Even is ever going to get on this.)

-

It’s colorful, this one. Slides made of cheerful, brightly colored plastic, oranges and magentas and yellows. Little pointed red roofs that cover the platforms and the walkways. A swing set, too, and predictably that’s where Even goes first. He reaches out to touch one of them, wrapping his hand around the rope keeping it suspended from the frame, but he doesn’t get on it, just swings it back and forth a little.

“This is pretty nice,” Isak says begrudgingly as he follows behind. It seems newly constructed, if the lack of scuff marks on the slides is anything to go by. And the seclusion is welcome, though he doesn’t get the impression a lot of people go here anyway.

(A playground that isn’t played with. That’s almost a sad thought.)

Even leans his head back and grins lopsidedly at Isak. “Ours is better,” he says.

Isak snorts. A playground they’ve gone to all of three times their whole lives hardly qualifies as _theirs_. “It’s old and falling apart and probably full of safety hazards, even if they did fix it up a little. I’m surprised they haven’t torn it down yet.”

“It’s got character, though.” Even turns back toward the swing. “If it’s falling apart, that just means it got the love it deserved.”

Isak doesn’t bother questioning Even’s logic there. He just sighs. “So what are we doing here, then?”

Even lets go of the swing.

“We’re gonna be kids again,” he says, and now his grin is so blinding Isak almost forgets it’s a cloudy day.

He lunges forward and nudges Isak’s shoulder. “Tag, you’re it,” he says, and sprints away.

Isak stares after him, dumbfounded. “Seriously?”

“Catch me if you can!” Even calls over his shoulder.

Isak shakes his head.

Then, he runs.

(That was as much an inevitability as anything can be.)

-

Isak didn’t catch him.

“Holy fuck,” he manages to get out past the burning in his lungs. “You and your long fucking legs.” He collapses unceremoniously onto the bench Even’s already sitting on, spreading his arms across the top of the bench. One of them curls around Even’s shoulders, almost of its own volition. He keeps it there.

Even gasps out a laugh. Isak turns his head toward him instinctively. He’s all stretched out, head leaned back toward the sky and grin lighting up every inch of his face. He looks looser like this, somehow. More open. It still amazes Isak, sometimes, how quickly he can shift between all the different versions of himself. And it’s never a lie. It’s always what he feels.

“I need to work out more, fuck,” Even says. “How do I have stomach cramps just from that?”

Isak pokes Even in the side. “As if you work out at all,” he says.

“Shit, Isak,” Even laughs, “don’t call me out like this.”

Isak feels the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I’ll do what I want, thanks.”

“I know you will,” Even says, and the fondness in his voice is so profound Isak feels it within himself, striking a chord inside him he didn’t even know existed.

He traces his fingertips over the fabric of Even’s jacket, pressing into his arm lightly. “You doing okay?”

The smile Even’s face settles into is soft and genuine. He gets it, then. He gets what Isak is asking. Why he’s asking it.

(Then again, the matter of Even knowing what Isak means has never been in question.)

“Yeah, I think so,” Even says.

What Isak wouldn’t give to remove all the uncertainty from his words, all the doubts in his mind.

Still, he sounds honest, and that seems all right for now.

“Good,” Isak says. “I was ready to fight if you weren’t.”

Even lets out another laugh. “What, fight _me_?”

Isak reaches up briefly with the hand around Even’s shoulder and brushes his knuckles against Even’s temple lightly. “Nah,” he says. “I’d fight the universe for making you sad.”

Even’s gaze flickers to him. It’s quiet, for a moment. But his eyes are fond, too, endlessly fond, and that makes things feel easy again.

“I’m sorry,” Isak says, the words slipping out of him like a breath.

Even blinks. “What for?” he says.

The thing is, there’s so many answers to that question Isak doesn’t really know which one’s the most fitting. Sorry for wasting his time, sorry for making things more complicated than they really had to be, sorry for not paying attention enough, sorry for not being enough. There’s too many answers for him to know the right one.

(This is a lie. He knows what he’s most sorry for.

Mostly, he’s sorry he didn’t say sorry sooner.)

“For giving you so much shit about playgrounds,” Isak says. “They’re really not that bad.”

Even bursts into a grin. “Fucking finally! Took me years, but I did it. I convinced you.”

“Yeah,” Isak says. “Took you years.”

And now the air between them’s changed, all of a sudden. Now it feels a bit more uncertain, a bit more fragile. The way it always gets when they brush up against the time that separated them for so long. He knows that neither of them are really sure what to do with it, have always just left it there in the silences between their words. He used to be scared to touch it. Used to think if he did, maybe whatever it is that’s between them now, the small ground they’ve managed to make up, would break apart.

Isak turns toward Even, tightening his grip around Even’s shoulders with one arm and taking careful hold of Even’s hand with the other. Their fingers slide together easily, like they’ve been doing this their whole lives.

He’s not going to let go if he can help it.

“Maybe that’s what I’m really sorry for,” he says. “The years between us.”

Even squeezes his fingers lightly. “Wasn’t your fault.”

“I stopped answering your emails,” Isak says. That used to be hard to think about, harder to say out loud. He’d always try to deny it, too. Always try to make up excuses. But now he has no more excuses, and for some reason that’s what makes it easy to talk about now. Now, it’s just the truth.

(Nothing more and nothing less.)

Even nods slowly. “That’s true,” he says.

Isak frowns. “And you still don’t think it’s my fault?” he says.

“Well,” Even says, “if it is, it’s not just your fault.”

“What do you mean?”

“I stopped sending them, too,” Even says. “Didn’t I?”

Things are still, for a moment. Or it feels like they are, anyway. Objectively speaking, he knows the birds are still singing and the wind is still blowing and the earth is still turning under them, but Isak looks at Even and nothing else feels real right now. Nothing feels real except for the look in his eyes, serious as anything.

“I…” Isak falters, has to try again. “What?”

Even doesn’t answer for a moment. He turns his head back toward the sky and closes his eyes.

“I thought about you a lot, those four years,” he says.

“I bet,” Isak tries to joke, but it falls flat even to his own ears. His heart feels ill-fitting in his chest, rubbing against his ribs the wrong way. He can’t ignore how that sentence doesn’t answer his question.

Even opens his eyes and meets Isak’s gaze steadily.

“I thought about you every day,” Even says.

There are no jokes Isak can make to that, not even weak ones. It sounds like an exaggeration - every day for four years is a hell of a lot of days - but even if it is in practice, Isak can tell Even means every word he says.

“And I thought…” Even’s voice shakes, just a little. “I thought about how much I was missing. And how much I didn’t want to be missing it. And how sad that made me, because fuck, Isak, sometimes I could hardly stand it. I could feel you becoming a stranger by the day. And I let it happen. Fucking hell, Isak, how could I? How the fuck _could_ I?”

There’s nothing Isak can say to that either. He has nothing to give but silence.

“I gave up on you,” Even says. “I should never - I should have sent you something every damn _day_.”

Isak’s chest hurts. The words inside his heart hurt more.

“Even,” he says.

Even swallows. “What?”

Isak moves his hand from Even’s shoulder up to the side of his face. Brushes his fingertips over the corner of his eye. His temple. His cheek. Even’s breath shudders between his teeth at each touch.

“I tried to forget about you,” Isak says. “And not for a good reason. I just didn’t want to think about you anymore.”

(It hurt too much. And that’s what he’s always done when it hurts too much, isn’t it?)

“It wasn’t brave,” Isak says. “It was stupid. It was fucking stupid, because I just - I could never forget you, Even. I could never. Trying just made me feel worse.”

For an irrational moment, he wonders if Even will be hurt by that. He’s almost afraid to look, almost afraid to find out. He looks anyway.

But there’s no pain in Even’s eyes. There’s only quiet.

“You know that conversation we had?” Even says. “About being scared?”

They’ve talked a lot about being scared, recently. Isak nods.

“I think we’ve both been scared for a long time,” Even says.

Yeah, maybe that’s true. Maybe Isak doesn’t really know what it’s like not to be scared.

(Maybe he’s been scared his whole life.)

“Scared of what?” Isak says. It might be unfair to make Even answer for him. Honestly, though, if there’s anyone he can trust to make sense of the mess inside his head, it’s Even.

Even’s expression turns contemplative. He leans in close, brushes his lips against Isak’s eyebrow. Their foreheads almost touch; they don’t quite.

“You were scared of how you felt,” Even says quietly.

Isak almost wants to feel strange about hearing someone else say that out loud. It’s not an easy thing to think, and it’s not an easy thing to hear. But it doesn’t scare him that someone sees through him the way that Even does. It doesn’t; it comforts him instead.

“And what about you?” Isak says. He thinks he could answer for Even like Even answered for him. He thinks maybe Even doesn’t want him to. Maybe Even wants to say this out loud for himself. Maybe he needs to.

Even glances down. “I - ” Even breathes in deeply, breathes out slowly. He looks back up to meet Isak’s eyes with his own. “I was scared of the way things were changing.”

He looks scared now. Scared of what, Isak can’t say. It makes his heart ache anyway.

“Because they were,” Even whispers. “And I couldn’t stop it. And sometimes the scariest things are the things that are real.”

Isak can’t say anything to that, either. He can’t deny it, can’t pretend that Even is lying. Fucking everything has changed since then.

Instead of trying, he leans forward until his forehead is pressed into Even’s shoulder. He takes in the smell of him, the feeling of him. And he keeps his arm around Even. Keeps holding his hand. Keeps holding on.

Neither of them say anything for a while, and the silence feels like infinity.

Although it could never be, not for them. Even shifts in his seat, slightly. “Can I ask you something, Isak?”

Isak lifts his head up. “Yeah?”

“Do you regret it?” Even says.

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Isak says. There are so many things he could mean that Isak would say yes to.

Even reaches with his other hand, brushing against the shell of Isak’s ear. His fingertips are cold, but Isak does not shiver.

“The years,” Even says. “How much time we lost.”

Isak thinks about it for a moment. Thinks about how he felt before that time, and how he felt during that time, and how he felt after. Thinks about how he feels now.

And he thinks about regret, and how it’s a feeling that depends mostly on how much you wish you could go back in time and make better decisions. And he wonders if that’s really what he wants, after all this time. He wonders if he wishes he’d made the right choices.

He wonders if there is such a thing as a choice that is right.

“What you were saying before,” Isak says slowly. “Things did change, that’s true. We’re different people from who we were when we were younger.”

He looks down at their intertwined hands as he speaks. When he was thirteen, he would never have dared to dream that holding Even’s hand was a possibility.

“And the past is always going to be there, and we can’t change that,” he continues. “We can’t ignore it because it matters.”

He tightens his grip around Even’s fingers.

“But whatever choices we made,” he says, “whatever mistakes happened, we’re here, now. You’re here. I’m here, too. And you can’t change that, either.”

He looks up at Even, and Even’s staring back at him. Staring with his eyes wide open.

“You’re here, too,” Even echoes, voice filled with quiet awe.

The words feel like they’re falling inside Isak, slowly. They settle inside him, landing in his gut, his chest. His heart. They feel like truth - a reliable truth.

He leans in, kisses Even softly. It’s a warm brush of their lips, exhaled breaths shuddering against his skin. It’s a promise. Or it’s nothing more than a simple kiss. Either way, it’s enough.

(He’s only just getting used to that concept, the idea that it might belong to him. He’s getting used to the idea that he has time to get used to it, too.)

He pulls away slowly, leaning their foreheads together. Even’s eyes are closed, and he looks tired in the overcast light, shadows dark under his eyes and chest rising up and down slowly, but he looks so real, too. He is so real.

And in this moment he is here, in this moment they’re both here, and that matters more than anything else. Even if that changes in the future, what does it matter? Isak’s not scared of it anymore. Or at the very least, he doesn’t want to be.

He leans his head against Even’s shoulder, and breathes the moment in. Lets it settle softly around him, wrap him in a quiet that calms the thoughts inside his head and makes his heart feel as if it’s the right size for his chest. It’s been a long day, and he’s thought so many things today. He’s felt so many things. Right now, he’s only thinking one of them.

Isak turns his head to the side slightly, brings Even’s hand to his mouth and brushes his lips over his middle knuckle. “I love you,” he says.

(He’s not scared of those words anymore, either.)

Even says nothing. He’s motionless.

Isak moves his face toward the warmth of his neck and nudges it with his nose. “I think I’ve loved you my whole life,” he says. “And I think I’ll love you forever.”

Even doesn’t try to claim that’s not possible, doesn’t say they haven’t actually known each other for that long, doesn’t even protest that they’re not immortal so they can’t love forever if they can’t live forever. To be fair, those sound more like the kind of arguments Isak would make, anyway. But Even doesn’t make them either. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of Isak’s head, and he inhales deeply.

“Can I tell you something?” Even says into his hair.

Isak nods, rocking his head closer to Even’s shoulder. Even pulls his face away.

“I was going to do a drawing for this,” Even says. “Make a fun little comic. I even thought about folding it into a crane for, you know, the sake of continuity.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, crushed crane, holding it out with a rueful smile. Isak doesn’t take it. Just stares.

“You remember the last time I gave you one of those, don’t you?” Even says. “How you were supposed to make a wish?”

He’d all but forgotten.

No, that’s not quite right. He remembers. His fingers tightening around it, the paper edges gentle against his skin. The wish he’d made, knowing it was never going to happen, hoping for it anyway. Wondering if one day he could believe in dreams again.

“Did it come true?” Even says.

(For a long time, he thought it wouldn’t.)

“Yeah,” Isak says. “I think it did.”

Though did it really come down to the power of wishes in the end? It didn’t help when he spent years wishing he knew the right thing to say, wishing he knew how to want things the way he was supposed to. It didn’t help when he spent his whole fucking life wishing he knew who he was.

The power of wishes has got nothing on what reality is capable of.

“But,” Isak says, “I don’t think it came true because of the crane.”

Even swallows. “No?”

“No,” Isak says. “I think it came true because of you.”

Even’s eyes widen. And Isak keeps looking at him. He looks so Even might believe him, might understand exactly what he means.

And he doesn’t have to hope for that, either. He knows he will.

Even closes his fingers around the crane, still folded up in his palm.

“I’m bipolar,” he says.

Isak nods. “Okay,” he says.

Even’s gripping his hand so tight it almost hurts. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Isak says. “What does that mean for you?”

Even takes in a breath.

“Sometimes,” he says, “everything feels like it’s moving at the speed of light, and so am I. Sometimes, I feel the exact opposite, sometimes I feel like I’ll never move again. And sometimes - sometimes I feel like nothing at all.”

He’s staring at Isak again, that searching look. It almost hurts that of all moments, this is the one he wouldn’t know how Isak would react to. It doesn’t hurt because Isak understands why he doesn’t know. And he understands what he wants to do to try to change that.

“You’re not nothing,” Isak says.

“No?” Even says weakly.

“No,” Isak says.

It’s one word. It’s just one word, and it’s hardly a big one. There are so many other words he could say. Better-sounding ones. More important ones. But when he tries to pull them out of his lungs, they refuse to leave. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe they wouldn’t sound that great out loud, anyway. Maybe whatever Even can see in his eyes now - and Isak hopes he sees everything - will make up for it.

Even blinks. Isak counts the motion of his eyelids in his head, uses the number to mark the time that passes. The seconds move by slower that way.

“Thanks, Isak,” Even says, quietly.

Isak doesn’t say anything to that. He just holds Even’s hand. He holds on as tight as he can.

And nothing changes.

(Nothing changes.)

Isak doesn’t know how long they sit there. It could be hours. It could be minutes. It could be no time at all.

Even nudges him. “Are you ready to go home?”

Isak shrugs. “Are you?” he says.

Even smiles softly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

-

Home apparently means Isak’s flat, mostly because that’s closer to where they are. They haven’t eaten dinner yet, but Even looks tired, and Isak kind of is too, so Isak doesn’t complain about moving into his room as soon as they get there. They fall into bed together, and Isak doesn’t protest when Even reaches for him and pulls him close. He wants him to.

It’s getting dark. Everything’s all soft and dim in the room. Everything’s that way inside his head, too.

He doesn’t exactly mean to fall asleep, but he doesn’t fight it, either. He closes his eyes and carries the feeling of Even’s arms around him into the darkness.

And now, everything is quiet.

-

Even’s still there when he wakes up, arms a solid comfort around Isak’s waist. Isak blinks blearily, taking in the almost total darkness of the room. He’s not really looking forward to finding out what time it is, so he doesn’t try. Instead, he wriggles in Even’s grip until his arms loosen so he can turn around and face him. He can just make out the shadowy outline of Even’s face. He leans in close, pressing their foreheads together.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey,” Even says back. Isak can’t see if he’s smiling, but he can hear it in his voice.

Isak presses his palm into the warm skin of Even’s hip, pinning him gently in place. “Hungry?”

There’s a pause. Isak wonders, briefly, if Even will say he has to leave.

“No,” Even says. “Who gives a shit about bodily needs when I’ve got you?”

Isak rolls his eyes. “If you starve yourself just for the sake of cuddles I’m gonna kick your ass,” he says.

Even laughs softly. Isak feels the vibrations of the noise, the movement of it. “I’m not hungry,” Even says. “Really.”

“Okay,” Isak says. Skipping dinner might not be a good decision, but leaving this bed definitely isn’t a good decision, either. Between the two choices to make, he already knows which he cares about more right now.

They’re quiet, for a moment. Quiet in the dark.

Then, Isak sighs. “Are you doing okay?”

Even shifts a little. “You’ve asked that a lot today.”

“I just…” Isak licks his lips. “We talked about something that can’t have been easy for you to talk about, and I hope I didn’t… I hope you don’t regret talking about it.”

The silence, now, is soft. Easy to break, but if it did, it would not be a violence.

Lips brush against Isak’s forehead. Then, a quiet exhale. He can feel that against his forehead, too.

“I don’t,” Even says. “Actually, I feel pretty okay about it, I think.”

“You think?”

Fingertips brush against Isak’s neck, his jaw, his ear, briefly. Isak shivers a little under the touch.

“It still feels huge,” Even says. “Huger than anything.”

Isak nods. He gets that. Sometimes, saying things out loud doesn’t actually make them easier to think about.

“And I guess,” Even says, “I guess I’m still scared.”

(Isak gets that, too.)

“Of what?” he says.

“Of what you think,” Even says.

A fragile pause.

“Bet you wish you could read minds now,” Isak says.

Even huffs out a surprised-sounding laugh. “Your thoughts are your own,” he says. He rests his hand on Isak’s neck, his fingers tangling easily through his hair. “Besides, I feel like that would just make it worse.”

Isak lets his eyes slip shut. Wouldn’t matter much if he kept them open, anyway. He still can’t see Even’s face.

“How?” he says.

“I’d rather just never know,” Even says.

Isak considers this. He takes the sentence and turns it around in his head, poking at the words. Wonders what he actually does think. Wonders if it’s something Even _should_ know, regardless of if he wants to or not.

“Can I tell you anyway?” he says.

Even’s fingers pull lightly at Isak’s hair. “If you want.”

Isak strokes his thumb over the ridge of Even’s hipbone. Even’s breath stutters softly in time to the motion.

“I think,” Isak says, “that no matter what I think, you’re still you. And nothing I or anyone else might say will change that.”

Slowly, he moves his hand from Even’s hip to his elbow, then to his back, then to his neck. He traces the curls of Even’s hair at the nape of his neck with his fingertips. He brushes his palm over the knobs of his spine. He counts the shaky breaths Even lets out, one by one.

“I think, he continues, “that what I actually think of you is, you’re the bravest, strongest person I’ve ever met. And that’s because of the shit you’re fighting in your head, not in spite of it.”

Isak can pinpoint the exact moment Even forgets how to breathe.

“And I think...”

Here, he has to pause. All the other shit he said before was true, and it was easy for him to say, and easier to think. What he’s about to say is true, too, but it’s not easy to say or think at all.

He breathes in. He’s got all the time in the world to say it.

“I think I should have told you this sooner,” Isak says. “And I’m sorry that I didn’t, because I think that made it harder for the both of us. But we’re here in this moment, and I’m telling you right now. And I hope it’s not too late for you to hear it.”

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Just a few minutes prior, Isak thought he would hate it if his words were met with silence. But he doesn’t hate it. He thinks this is pretty okay, actually. Thinks maybe the quiet really was meant for peace, after all.

Then, lips brush against his lips, and his eyes close of their own volition. In the darkness, Even kisses him, softly and slowly like the world will never end. And Isak lets him.

(He lets him.)

“It’s not,” Even whispers against Isak’s mouth.

Isak believes him.

They pull away slowly. Even leans forward, brushing their noses together. Isak’s heart swells in his chest.

“And what about you?” Even says.

“What about me?” Isak repeats.

“Are you doing okay?”

Isak swallows. He could brush the question off like he’s always done. He could say nothing at all and let that be his answer. Thinking about the answer to this question hasn’t gotten any easier.

But it’s there, regardless.

“It’s been the longest fucking day,” Isak says. “I keep on thinking about - fuck, I don’t know. I keep on thinking about how things could be different. I think moving out was something I had to do, but I wish I’d had a choice about it, you know?”

“Yeah,” Even says. “I know.”

Isak breathes out a shaky laugh. Of course he does.

“I felt so useless today,” Isak says. “Sitting in that hospital, just waiting for what other people tell me to do. I’m tired of it. Shit, I’m so fucking tired of it.”

Everything’s still and quiet for a long moment. He doesn’t hate the silence. It doesn’t make his heart feel too big for himself, or too small. He knows Even heard him. To feel listened to - sometimes, that’s enough.

Even runs the tips of his fingers lightly over Isak’s scalp.

“You wanted to be there for her today,” Even says. “And when the time comes, you can still be there, if you wanted. I think that counts for something.”

Isak feels the breath rush out of his lungs, at that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Lips brush the corner of his eye. “You’re here for me now, aren’t you?”

Isak presses himself closer to Even, as close as physically possible. Their mouths are so close Isak can feel the warmth of Even’s lips against his.

“Always,” he says.

(It’s a word that belongs to him, now. It’s a word that belongs to them.)

“Always,” Even echoes. “You’re the best person I know, Isak.”

Isak doesn’t argue. He bridges the small gap between them, pressing their lips together warmly.

And he lets the moment happen on its own.

They break apart slowly, like they always do. The darkness feels easy to live inside.

“So what happens now?” Even says, nuzzling closer. His breaths tingle against Isak’s skin.

Isak hums. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve still got your shit,” Even says. “That’s not going to go away. And I’ve still got mine.”

He sounds almost nervous to say that out loud, like if he reminded Isak of these facts that would somehow make things worse. Isak doesn’t know how to tell Even that he could never make things worse between them in a way he would believe, so he settles for the thing he does know how to say.

“I’ll tell you what happens now,” Isak says. “Are you ready?”

His hand is still on Even’s neck. He feels it when he nods.

“We figure our shit out together,” Isak says.

Even exhales slowly. “Yeah?”

Isak leans their foreheads close.

“Yeah,” he says. “But you have to let me help you, and I have to let you help me. Do you think we can do that?”

A pause.

“Do you?” Even says.

“I think I could do just about anything,” Isak says, “if I was doing it with you.”

The silence feels like it’s in awe.

Even breaks it with a disbelieving laugh.

“I can’t believe I’m the one in this relationship who has to remind you that’s not possible,” Even says.

“No, you’re right,” Isak says. “It probably is impossible. But you make me want to believe it.”

Then again, a lot of things he thought were impossible happened just today. The impossible has been happening since the very day Even came back to him. And it didn’t just happen; they _made_ it happen. Maybe when it comes to them, there really isn’t such a thing. He doesn’t know, but he thinks he wants to find out.

“Okay,” Even says. “Then I believe it, too.”

Isak doesn’t give an answer to that. He lets the words settle over them as they lie inside the darkness and the silence. It almost feels like this room contains a whole world inside it, something they’ve carved out of the breathless quiet for themselves. But he knows the world outside of here is waiting for them when they’re ready to leave, and that’s okay, too.

After a while - seconds, minutes, hours; who knows? Who cares? - Even shifts against him. “Hey, Isak?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we have to figure it out now?” Even kisses Isak’s cheek. “Because I could really go for dinner, maybe.”

He says it lightly. Isak knows he actually means it this time.

“Maybe?” Isak repeats.

“Well,” Even says. “I can think of other things I could go for, too.”

“Like…?”

Even doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

-

In the morning, Isak wakes up with his duvet tucked around his shoulders and pale light trickling in from the veiled window.

He blinks slowly, willing the heaviness in his head to go away. The novelty of still having the covers around him is pleasing for about half a second before the full implications of what that could possibly mean sink in. He twists his head around, and the utter relief he feels at seeing Even’s body still next to him hits him hard in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Another moment passes, the thunder in his chest subsides, and he wonders why he worried in the first place.

He turns his face toward the ceiling and closes his eyes. It’s probably not healthy to experience this much emotional whiplash this soon after he woke up, but the instincts he’s fought against for half his life aren’t exactly easy to let go of.

Even makes a soft noise beside him. Isak turns toward him again, taking him in slowly. Sometime during the night, he’d curled up into himself, face half buried in his pillow. There’s something about seeing Even like this that makes something inside Isak’s heart twinge a little, though he doesn’t quite know why.

“Hey,” Even says, eyes still closed.

“Morning,” Isak says.

They lie there like that for a bit. Isak still doesn’t know what time it is.

“How are you?” Isak says.

Even turns his head to the window, opening his eyes a fraction. They flutter shut again.

“Fuck, I need coffee,” he says.

Isak feels the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I’ve got you,” he says.

“I know you do,” Even exhales. Isak’s heart melts, just a little.

He leans in to press a kiss to Even’s temple. “Be right back,” he whispers. Even nods tiredly in response.

The rest of his flatmates are already in the kitchen. Eskild is doing dishes at the sink, and Noora and Linn are at the table with their respective breakfasts in front of them. Isak waves them a sleepy greeting and makes his way to the coffee machine. He’s pleasantly surprised to find the pot still half-full with coffee.

“For you and Even,” Eskild says over his shoulder. “Because we’ve seen how you guys are in the morning, we all know you need it.”

Isak would flip him off except his heart feels too full.

“Thanks,” he says weakly.

“Don’t thank me,” Eskild says. “Thank Linn. Her generosity knows no bounds.”

“Hey, we all know I make the best coffee in this damn flat,” Linn says.

“Yes, one of your many talents,” Eskild says, without sarcasm. “We’re very grateful.”

Isak gets two mugs from the right cabinet and pours the coffee into the cups. He might be inclined to agree with Linn. The smell alone is almost enough to wake him up properly.

“Are you two doing okay, by the way?” Noora pipes up from her corner of the kitchen. “You, uh… You called it a night pretty early yesterday.”

Her tone is nonchalant, but from the silence that follows it, he can tell everyone there is waiting for his answer.

He takes hold of the mugs, one in each hand, and turns to face them. Linn’s resting her chin on her hand, eyes on the table in front of her. Noora’s got her red lipstick on this morning; it looks good on her.

And Eskild’s looking at him carefully, chipped plate in his yellow-gloved hands and quiet in his eyes.

And Isak’s got the coffee that Linn made in his hands, in cups that belong to Noora.

(No, he could never regret moving out of his mother’s home.)

“Yeah,” Isak says. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Oh, good,” Eskild says, turning back to the sink. “I’m very glad to know the toxic waste in your room hasn’t managed to kill the both of you yet.”

Now, Isak rolls his eyes. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, it’s that bad,” Linn says.

Isak turns to Noora, the only one who hasn’t chimed in yet. She just shoots him a sympathetic smile.

“Okay,” Isak says. “Fuck all of you, I’m going now.”

“That hurts,” Eskild calls out as Isak leaves the room. “It really does.”

“Good,” Isak yells over his shoulder, but pretty much nothing at this point could stop him from grinning anyway.

He shoulders his door open. Even’s looking a little more awake now, head turned to the window. The duvet is around his legs, and his arms are hugging his chest. As Isak walks into the room, Even turns slowly to face him. The look in his eyes softens even more slowly.

“Hey,” Isak says, offering Even a mug as he approaches.

Even pushes himself up into a sitting position and shoots him a brief, sleep-worn smile. “Hey,” he says. He takes the coffee from Isak and brings it up to his lips.

Isak sets his own coffee down on the bedside table and slips back into bed. He rests his back against the wall, leans his head against Even’s shoulder.

Even drinks his coffee. Isak soaks in the silence.

After a while, Even brings his mug down, resting it on his thighs between his hands. He traces the rim of it with his fingertips absently.

“I have a lot of bad days, you know,” Even says.

Isak presses the back of his hand against Even’s leg. “Is today a bad day?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Even says. “But it could be. It always could be.”

Isak turns his hand until his palm is facing up. Even gets it almost immediately, taking hold of his fingers with his own. Isak squeezes.

“Okay,” Isak says.

“Is it?” Even says. “You don’t even know what they look like.”

His words are even and his voice is smooth, but there’s more to it. There always is. Isak doesn’t know what “more” means, in this case. He hopes one day Even can tell him.

“You’re right,” Isak says. “I don’t.”

He draws their joined hands into his lap, brushing over the skin of Even’s knuckles with the fingertips of his other hand.

“But I want to,” he continues. “I want to know what they all look like. Not just the bad ones. Not just the good ones, either.”

Even tilts his head until his cheek rests against Isak’s hair.

“Are you sure?” he says quietly. “Some of them are ugly as fuck.”

Isak can tell Even means every word.

“And some of them will be beautiful,” Isak says. “And all of them will matter.”

(But Isak means every word, too.)

Even is quiet for a moment. Then, he huffs out a laugh. “I really admire your confidence,” he says.

“I don’t know that it’s confidence,” Isak says.

“No?” Even presses a kiss to the top of Isak’s head. “So what is it?”

Isak lifts his head off Even’s shoulder. He wants to look Even in the eye for this one. Wants him to be absolutely certain that Isak believes in what he’s about to say.

“Easy,” Isak says. “I know what it’s like to spend my days without you.”

Even swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Isak says. He brings his hand up to Even’s face, brushes a curl of hair behind his ear. “I don’t think there’s anything in the whole damn world that could be as bad as that.”

Even looks down.

“Me neither,” he whispers.

Isak flattens his hand, resting his palm against Even’s jaw and stroking his thumb over his cheekbone. He leans in and kisses him. It’s meant to be a brief thing, but Even exhales a shaky breath against his lips, and he tilts his head so their mouths fit together warmly, and Isak stays. Even’s lips are soft and sweet and everything, and Isak stays. Even kisses him back, and he stays.

Even pulls away and tilts his head up to press a kiss against Isak’s forehead, long and lingering. And Isak stays.

When Even’s face comes back down, Isak leans forward to brush their noses together. “Do you know what today’s going to be like, if it’s not a bad day?” Isak says.

Even smiles, warm and real. “I was hoping you’d tell me, actually,” he says. “What do you think?”

Isak brings his hand down so it curves around Even’s neck. “I think it’s going to be the best day,” he says.

“That sounds like a lot of pressure,” Even says. “It’s got a lot of competition.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Isak says, “they’re all the best days.”

Even’s eyebrows shoot up. “All of them?”

“Yes,” Isak says. “All of them.”

He shifts his hand, takes hold of the back of Even’s neck and presses their lips together again.

And Even stays, too.

At some point, Even’s put the cup somewhere on the floor and they’ve moved so they’re lying next to each other, face to face. Isak thinks he could stay like this forever, maybe. He thinks he’d be okay if they didn’t, either.

“So,” Even says. “I guess this is the first step of figuring things out together.”

“Wow, you made it sound so official,” Isak says. “Like a TV program or something. ‘Figuring Shit Out with Isak and Even’.”

Even shrugs. “I’d watch it.”

“I don’t know,” Isak says. “The hosts kind of sound like assholes.”

“You think so?” Even says, grinning.

“Definitely the first one, at least,” Isak says. “The second probably has to put up with a lot of bullshit from him.”

Even’s grin grows soft. “I don’t think the second minds all that much,” he says.

“Power to him, I guess.”

Even lets out a laugh. As it subsides, it leaves a smile in its wake, in the crinkling of his eyes, the humor at the corner of his mouth.

“But if this is the first step,” Even says, “do we have to figure out the other ones now?”

Isak gives Even a smile of his own. This is one he feels, now until the end of time.

“Nah,” he says. “We’ve got the rest of our lives.”

And he believes it.

 

_**end of part III** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Here’s a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/strange-towns/playlist/1tWqvoqoQNcgcj2UkdQWFi) for Part 3, if you’re interested.
> 
> -The incredible [Lyds](https://boxesfullofsanasmiling.tumblr.com) was kind enough to lend their incomparable talents to an [extracanonical scene](http://boxesfullofsanasmiling.tumblr.com/post/163905321364/your-smile-in-the-back-of-my-mind) for this verse. It takes place at some point during P1 and I have fully accepted it as part of this verse and also i cannot thank them enough for putting this into existence, seriously, w o w. Please check it out if you haven’t yet!
> 
> -The epilogue will be posted at some point this week, whenever I finish editing it. We’re almost there, y’all!


	13. Epilogue - seconds, minutes, hours, lifetimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seconds go by, and they turn to minutes, but they could turn to hours for all he cares just so long as he has this, the face of a boy he loves in his hands and the soft warmth of his lips against his. He can’t bring himself to care about anything else in the entire world, not if he can have this for the rest of his life.

**IV. seconds, minutes, hours, lifetimes**

****

_i._

It’s a few hours after noon when Even finally gets back to his parents’ flat. He’s tired after the events of the last couple days, which he supposes was inevitable; but also content, the kind of content that seeps effortlessly into your bones and your insides, that feels less like an emotion and more like a state of being. Like, maybe he’s not exactly happy, but maybe one day, he could be. Maybe he can actually believe in the concept of happiness. It’s been a long time since he had this, or more accurately, since he let himself have this. He kind of forgot how amazing it feels, even if objectively speaking it’s not a big thing at all.

He takes a moment, after he takes off his shoes and puts up his jacket, to stand in the hallway and soak in the smell and sight of it. It seems necessary, for some reason, if a little excessive. He’s only been away for a little while, but this already feels like something he has to get used to again.

Then again, it’s not like he’s had a lot of time to get used to calling this flat “home” in general, or like he really gave himself that time. So maybe it isn’t so strange after all.

From the direction of the kitchen, he can hear the sink running, the soft scraping sound of a knife against a cutting board. He walks to the kitchen and pokes his head in.

“Hey, mom,” he says.

She doesn’t turn, just waves her hand in greeting. “There’s chocolate chip cookies in the cabinet, if you want them.”

That’s not an offer Even could ever turn down. He walks to the cabinet and finds the box. He contemplates the thought of moderation for all of two seconds before he takes the whole thing and brings it with him to the counter, leaning against the edge of it and watching his mother work.

“How are things here?” he says as he digs through the box for the first cookie.

“Calm,” she says. “Quiet.”

It’s a subtle hint about his absence, Even can tell. There’s no malice in it. In fact, from her exceedingly nonchalant tone, she probably means it as a joke. Still, he can’t help but feel the sting of guilt, even if being away from home hasn’t been a new thing for him in years. It’s a gut reaction he hasn’t quite outgrown yet, like his instincts haven’t yet caught on to the fact that he’s no longer a scrawny kid with a curfew.

“I was with Isak,” Even says. “We were, uh, we were…”

“It’s okay, Even,” she says. “You don’t have to explain.”

He stares at her.

She turns her head to look at him. There’s a touch of humor in her eyes. “I mean, I can always start requiring five page essays with citations every time you leave the house.”

Even presses a hand to his chest, screwing up his face in a mock grimace of pain. “Perish the thought,” he says. “No, I just thought… Maybe you might want to know.”

“I might,” she agrees. “But I did get your message last night. Thank you, by the way. Your father and I do appreciate it.”

“And that’s it?” he presses. “That’s enough?”

She turns back to the cutting board. “Yeah,” she says. “I think so.”

He tries not to frown at that, instead distracts himself with the cookie in his hand, turning it over in the overhead light before biting into it. It’s a generic store brand, so it’s not the best quality thing he’s ever tasted. Honestly, he could probably bake better himself, if he tried. It’s fine for what it is, though. Sweet on his tongue, but not cloying. A good balance.

“Figured you might be upset,” he says, swallowing the cookie down.

“I mean, do you want me to be upset? Because I can try, although you know my yelling voice isn’t that good.”

Even snorts. He knows. “No,” he says. “I guess I just thought you’d have the right to be, after - ” His words stumble over themselves a little, but he catches himself and takes in a breath to steady them. “After everything.”

They haven’t really talked about what happened last term. Well, no, that’s a lie. They’ve talked about it plenty, through the filter of doctors and new medications and hospital bills. Through the filter of moving cities, too. The filter of practicalities and expenses and everything else that used to make him want to itch himself out of his own skin. He’s just been too scared to find out how his parents actually feel about it.

No, that’s a lie, too. He thought he knew how they felt about it, and he was scared to know what that would look like in real life.

Is he still scared of that? He doesn’t know. There’s a lot of things he’s scared of, and some days he finds it near impossible to untangle the fear from all the other feelings in his heart when there’s so fucking many of them. It’s easier to admit that to himself, though. That the fear exists at all. Maybe that’s all he needs right now.

His mother raises her eyebrows. “Really?” she says. “I thought that’d be the reason why I _wouldn’t_ have the right to be upset.”

Even frowns. That doesn’t make much sense to him. “I went out almost every night without telling you or Sonja where I was going for weeks,” he points out, politely leaving out the ugly shit. The shit that came before, the fighting with Sonja and the fighting with his parents and the mountains of schoolwork and stress that seemed to always grow and never end, all of it like water in his lungs that didn’t know how to evaporate; the stupid shit he did during that time, pretending he knew how to forget what his problems were when all the alcohol and drugs did was make them feel even bigger; and the shit that happened after, the very worst of it. There’s too much of it to say out loud.

She nods, unfazed. “And why’d you do that, Even?” she says.

It’s not the response he’d expected. He doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Is it because you didn’t trust us?” she says.

There’s a softness he can’t name in her eyes, now. If he didn’t know any better, he might think it was something like pain.

He doesn’t quite know what to say to that, either.

She lets out a sigh. “If you didn’t, I don’t think I could blame you,” she says. “Back then, we didn’t trust you the way we should have.”

“I don’t understand,” Even says.

“When you were trying to get into film school, last term,” she says. “And you pushed yourself so hard. It was because of us, wasn’t it?”

There’s an uncertainty to her tone Even’s not used to hearing. His mom knows things, she knows almost everything in the whole world; he doesn’t know much, himself, but of that he’s always been sure. The idea that she could be uncertain about something - about _him_ \- is almost impossible for him to conceptualize.

Except it’s happening now, and he kind of gets why. This isn’t something they’ve talked about, either, because he always just figured his parents knew why he wanted to get into film school so badly the ache of it almost tore him apart from the inside out. But maybe they didn’t know. Maybe hearing that you should put aside your dreams for something less risky is just always going to stick out more if you heard it as a young child, no matter how many years ago it happened, than it would to the adults who said it.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” Even says.

His mother turns back to the cutting board and puts her knife down.

“I know,” she says, quietly.

Of course, he ended up doing that anyway. He ended up disappointing everyone.

Or maybe he just disappointed himself. Maybe that felt big enough for the whole world.

“I didn’t - ” He frowns down at his cookie. “I wanted to prove that I could do it. Not getting into film school felt like the worst possible outcome.”

“I get that, too,” she says. “It felt like the only way you could do what you wanted to do, right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It did.”

“Does it feel that way anymore?”

He has to think about it, really think about it, simply because he never took the time to do so before. He thinks about the things that he’s wanted throughout his life, the things he wanted to prove to himself he could keep. The things he lost because of the mistakes he made and the time he let pass him by.

The things that came back to him, in the end.

He thinks about the places he’s left, and the places he went to. He thinks about where he ended up being, after all this time. And how this isn’t the endgame, how there’s so much more of his life to live. He doesn’t know what the endgame is, has no fucking clue how he’s going to spend the rest of his years. But if it bothers him that he doesn’t know, it’s also something he’d like to learn to be okay with, someday. That in itself seems like a huge thing to admit.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I’ve got time to find out, don’t I?”

She smiles at him. “It’s your life, Even,” she says. “They’re your choices to make. And I’m very sorry if your father and I ever made that hard to believe.”

“I…” He smiles back. “I appreciate that, mom. Thanks.”

His phone buzzes, then. He pulls it out of his pocket, not sure what to expect, but he smiles wider when he sees who the notifications are from. It’s Sonja, and he doesn’t feel dread when he opens her messages anymore. Just fondness.

 _Hey, I’ve got some time this afternoon. Want to catch up? It’s been a while._  
_And to your last message - I’d love to meet Isak sometime._ _  
Wait, is it meeting someone if technically you’re meeting the pixelated video chat version of them??_

And then, as if the universe itself has impeccable timing, three messages come in from Isak.

 _Fuck can you believe we have to go back to SCHOOL on Monday_  
_I want to sleep for a million years_ _  
I vote next Saturday we just spend the whole day napping_

“I’m gonna take this,” he says.

His mother waves her hand. “Go forth, my son,” she says. “Live your life on your own terms.”

“You’re amazing,” he informs her as he leaves the kitchen. “Mom of the universe.”

“And don’t you forget it!” she calls over her shoulder. He grins.

-

_ii._

Sana’s already sitting at their table when Isak gets into biology on Monday. “You look like you had a rough weekend,” she says without preamble, looking him up and down with a quirk of her eyebrows.

Isak doesn’t bother rolling his eyes. It’s pretty much implied, at this point. “Thanks,” he says.

“Are you doing okay?” she says. She’s flipping through her textbook as she says it, which makes her question sound exceedingly casual. A matter of routine. Like she asks him this before every class.

(She doesn’t, but he appreciates the sentiment.)

“Yeah,” Isak says. “I mean, it kind of was a rough weekend, honestly, but I’m glad I survived.”

“Mm,” she says. “Me, too.”

Isak presses a hand to his chest. “What’s this?” he gasps. “Sana Bakkoush, showing actual emotion for another human being?”

He half-expects her to level one of her trademark glares at him, but her expression just seems amused. “Don’t flatter yourself. I need you to get through this next round of exams. You’re just lucky you’ve proven yourself useful this term.”

“ _Useful_? I’m the reason you’re even passing the class!”

“Uh, no, _I’m_ the reason you’re passing the class. I’ve had to remind you to do, like, every homework assignment.”

He smiles. “I appreciate that,” he says. “Really.”

She smiles back, and says nothing.

His phone buzzes, then. He opens the notification.

 **Dad** ****  
_Hi Isak, just wanted to let you know your mother’s out of the hospital and back at home_ _  
_ _Do you want to visit her this weekend?_

Isak stares at the screen. No guilt trip, this time around. Just a simple yes or no question.

(He doesn’t know how to feel about it.)

He looks up at Sana, who’s looking back at him steadily.

“Hey,” he says. “Do you remember that time you asked me that weird question?”

“How am I supposed to know what you consider weird or not?” she says, though from the look in her eyes he can tell she knows exactly where this is headed.

“When you asked…” He frowns, trying to remember the exact words. “When you asked if what other people wanted really mattered more to me than what I want?”

She raises her eyebrows as if to say, _go on_.

“What do you think?” he says. “For yourself, I mean.”

Something flickers across her face, too quick for Isak to really decipher what it is. For half a second, he thinks it might be surprise. But then it passes, and he’s not so sure anymore.

“I - ” She hesitates. “I mean, I guess it depends on what _they_ want. And I guess it depends on what I want, too.”

“And…” He pauses. “And what if you don’t know what they want? Or what if you don’t know what you want? What if you don’t know either of those things?”

Her expression softens.

“I mean, I can’t speak for you, but…” She looks down at her book. “From personal experience, you sit down. You take the time to think about your options. And you accept that it’s okay to do that. To let yourself do that.”

Now, her gaze flickers back up to him. It’s utterly serious.

“And if you decide that what you want is important enough,” she says, “well, then you fight for it.”

He laughs weakly. “Sounds easy.”

“It’s not,” she says. “But you get to decide if it’s worth it, don’t you?”

He stares at her. She stares back.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” she says.

He can feel himself frowning again. Before he can think of a response, though, the teacher starts the class. He turns his attention to the lecture and tries not to think too much about the sympathy in Sana’s voice.

The rest of class time is spent working on an assignment. After a spot of friendly bickering with Sana, Isak kidnaps the sheet and does the second half on his own, signing both their names at the top with a flourish.

(It’s the closest she’s ever going to get to a thank you.)

They turn in the assignment, and she shoots him a brief grin. He hopes that means she recognizes it.

He gets to lunch a couple minutes late, and all the boys are already sitting there. Even’s there too, looking like he’s belonged in this group forever with a pencil tucked behind his ear and his thumbs stuck in his pockets. Jonas and Mahdi are wrapped up in some animated discussion of a movie they saw the night before, and Magnus is gesturing wildly at Even about something Isak can’t even begin to guess at.

Even’s the first to notice Isak’s approach, probably to no one’s surprise. “Hey,” he says with a pleased little smile as Isak sinks into the empty chair next to him.

Isak reaches out, brushes his knuckles against the back of Even’s hand. “Hey,” he answers with a smile of his own.

Magnus throws a fry at him. “Stop it,” he says. “It’s been two seconds and you guys are already being adorable.”

Isak picks the fry up off his lap and pops it into his mouth. “We’ve literally said one word to each other,” he says.

Jonas turns from his conversation to raise his eyebrows at him. “You don’t _need_ to say words,” he says. “You two could probably be standing across a crowded room and still find a way to be ridiculous.”

Isak frowns. “How would that even work?”

“It’s the way you look at each other, man,” Mahdi chimes in. “Like, damn.”

“The way you guys look at each other is the reason I believe in soulmates,” Magnus says, matter-of-fact.

“That’s ridiculous,” Isak says indignantly, looking over to Even for back-up, but Even doesn’t say anything, is looking at him with nothing but familiar softness in his eyes, and the words die in the back of his throat.

Isak is dimly aware of Magnus throwing his hands up, somewhere in the background. “I give up,” he says.

If Isak wanted to, he could try to think of a retort.

(He doesn’t want to.)

“How’s your day been?” he says to Even instead. Just like that, the noise around them starts to melt away. It’s not like he isn’t conscious of other people in the room. It’s just that looking at Even makes it easier not to care about everyone else.

Even tilts his head in consideration. “Pretty okay,” he says. “Not good or bad. Somewhere in-between.”

Isak nods. “That’s pretty okay,” he agrees.

The corner of Even’s mouth twitches upward. “And you?”

Isak heaves a dramatic sigh. “Classes are fucking boring,” he says. “And I’m tired.”

Even winces sympathetically. “Still?”

“Yeah. Do you reckon we could go home after our lunch break to take a nap?”

“I mean,” Even says, “I certainly wouldn’t be opposed.”

Isak knocks his knee against Even’s. “I know. But we have to be, like, responsible, or something.”

“Responsible?” Even says, eyes widening. “Never heard of that word in my life.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Of course you haven’t.”

Even grins, but otherwise says nothing more. The silence that settles between them is comfortable, as it always is. Isak lets his attention wander back to the rest of the boys, but only somewhat. Jonas is currently throwing fries at Magnus, who appears to be trying to catch them in his mouth. Mahdi’s cheering them on from the sidelines, pumping his fist in the air when Magnus actually manages it, which happens more than Isak expected. They’re clearly enjoying themselves. It’s hard not to smile along when their grins are so big and genuine. So he doesn’t try to fight it, just ducks his head down and keeps it to himself.

But as light as his chest feels now, as good as that feels, it’s not enough to make him forget the message on his phone. The unanswered questions. He taps his fingertips against the side of his leg, trying to soothe some of the nervous energy fighting its way to the surface of his heart. “Dad texted me,” he says.

“Yeah?”

Isak glances back at Even, who hasn’t looked away. His eyes are serious, now. But gentle. Always gentle.

“Yeah,” Isak says. “Mom’s back home, now.”

“That’s good,” Even says. “I’m glad she’s doing better.”

“Me too.” Isak breathes out a sigh.

Even brings his arm up and rests it across the back of Isak’s chair. His hand curls around his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Hey there,” he says. “What’s on your mind?”

Isak has to wonder how obvious he’s making it. How loud his thoughts are, if Even is able to hear them. Or maybe it’s just that Even’s always listening.

Isak swallows hard. “He also asked if I wanted to visit her.”

“Hm,” Even says. “He asked? Like, genuinely asked?”

Isak laughs shakily. “Yeah, I was surprised, too.”

Now, Even’s fingertips are tracing over Isak’s shoulder, abstract patterns he can’t keep track of. Strangely, it soothes him.

“It’s okay to say no, if you don’t want to,” Even says. “You don’t owe them anything.”

“That’s the thing,” Isak says. “I think I want to.”

Even’s hand hovers over the skin of his upper arm. “Yeah?”

“I just don’t know if I can,” Isak says.

Even doesn’t ask him to elaborate. He nods.

“I get that,” he says. “It’s been so long.”

It shouldn’t be startling, anymore, those moments Even sees through Isak with such easy clarity. He shouldn’t be surprised.

(But what Even said is true. God, it’s so true it almost hurts.)

“It’s like, how will I even know what to say to her?” Isak lets out a short laugh. “I’ve ignored her for months.”

Even hums thoughtfully. “Maybe you don’t have to know what to say.”

Isak frowns. “Yeah?”

Even reaches up with his hand, tracing the curls of hair at Isak’s ear.

“Maybe it’s enough just to listen,” he says.

He says the words softly, but there’s a weight to them Isak can’t ignore. Some hidden significance Isak can’t even begin to guess at. He doesn’t try. He doesn’t have to.

“You really think so,” he says instead. It’s not a question. He can tell Even means it.

“Yeah,” Even answers anyway. “I really do.”

It’s easier now, more than ever, to believe him. So Isak lets himself. He lets the feeling of it fill him up until he’s almost bursting with it, the feeling of how much he believes in Even. He’ll believe him for the rest of his life.

(That probably sounds dramatic as hell, but he can’t deny he believes it, too. Not anymore.)

Even’s still staring at him. The look in his eyes is contemplative.

“I can go with you, if you want,” he says. “If you think that would help.”

It’s tempting to take him up on his offer. With Even by his side, he almost believes words like “brave” and “strong” can belong to him.

But if he really does this - and in his head, it’s becoming increasingly likelier that he will; what else could he possibly fuck up that he hasn’t already? - maybe he doesn’t need things like bravery and strength. Maybe he just needs himself.

(Maybe his mother will think that’s enough, too.)

“It’s okay,” Isak says. “If I go, I think it’d be better on my own. Fewer people to overwhelm her, you know?”

Even nods his understanding. “If you think so.”

“Thanks for offering. I appreciate it. Although - ” Isak grimaces. “Fuck, we had plans Saturday, didn’t we?”

“It’s okay.” Even leans in and presses a quick kiss to Isak’s cheek. “We hang out pretty much every day, anyway. Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Every day with you matters to me,” Isak says, almost offended Even could imply otherwise.

Even grins. “You’re so cute, Isak.”

“ _You’re_ cute,” Isak returns, ignoring the fact that that’s not a proper insult at all. “You think it’s going to be okay?”

Even’s eyes are bright and soft.

“No matter what happens,” he says, “I’ll be here.”

Isak can’t help but smile at that. “I know,” he says.

At the end of lunch break, they stand up together. “Can I walk you to class?” Even says, nudging Isak’s arm with his own.

“Knock yourself out,” Isak says with a shrug, though it’s admittedly a pretty poor coverup for the wide smile on his face.

“The pinnacle of romance, everyone,” Magnus says, clapping slowly.

“What a gentleman,” Mahdi says.

“Yeah, Isak, you better keep him around,” Jonas says with a grin. “Guys like that don’t come around all that often.”

“Don’t worry,” Isak says, taking Even’s hand. “I plan to.”

-

 **To: Mom** **  
** _Can I stop by on Saturday?_

-

_iii._

In a way, it’s actually a good thing Isak had to cancel their Saturday plans. It’s been a while since Even had a shoot on his own, and he’s finally got enough time on his hands to make it happen. He’s missed it, really, missed the familiar weight of the camera in his hands and the singular experience of looking at the world through the lens. Shooting footage with another person there to banter with is never something he can complain about, especially not when it’s Isak, but he doesn’t mind doing this alone, either, doesn’t mind letting the solitude sharpen his focus until everything that doesn’t matter fades gently away and all that exists is him and his camera and the world he sees. It’s just about one of the only things in the world that can make his head go quiet in a way he likes.

After his therapy appointment, he takes the tram to the heart of downtown Oslo, somewhere with plenty of people milling about and living their lives. Shooting nature when there’s hardly anyone around is peaceful, but Even thinks it’s possible to find a bit of peace here, too, amidst the chaos. Everyone has their own thoughts, their own worries; no one gives a shit what anyone else is doing. He likes the idea of the anonymity within a city crowd, all these people walking the paths of their lives next to other people walking their own paths, and for some of them this is the only time their paths will cross for the rest of their days, and they’ll never know it, and they’ll never care. It’s not exactly a poetic statement; it’s just real life.

He sets up on a bench in the shadows of a building, preparing to stay there for a few hours. He might walk around the streets later, try to get some motion in his shots, but he wants to spend at least some time soaking in the energy of the setting, immersing himself in the sheer feeling of the city, before he does much else.

The noise doesn’t exactly fade away when he puts the camera to his face - he could never ignore the cars driving by, the scattered snippets of conversations and strange flashes of laughter surrounding him with familiar chaos - but it softens a little at the edges, and he lets it wash over him, lets all the small sounds build into one blurry wave of sound that fogs up his ears. He lifts the camera up, points it in different directions, tries out different angles and focuses until he finds some options he likes. This is what he lives for, the control he has over the footage he takes. It’s how he sees the world, more or less, and people usually think of the things you see with your own eyes as objective, unchangeable fact, but he knows the truth. It’s all in the framing. A camera captures anything that’s in front of it, that’s fair. But what about everything that’s not?

The best part about being the person behind the camera is that you get to figure that out for yourself. What makes it into the shot, what doesn’t. He wonders sometimes what it would be like if he could do that in real life, but for now he’ll settle for this. It already sets him free.

“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice says. “Nice set-up.”

He brings his camera down to his lap and looks up, blinking. It didn’t startle him, but he wasn’t exactly expecting anyone to talk to him in this moment, either. The person in question, long hair curling at his temples and sleeves pulled over his hands, is grinning down at him.

“Seriously,” the stranger says. “What devil did you sell your soul to to get that camera?”

Even laughs. “Whatever devil is responsible for coffee shops and their early morning rushes,” he says. “I think I must have saved up for this old thing for fucking months, back when I was in Stavanger.”

“Stavanger?” The guy whistles between his teeth. “Just moved here or something?”

“Moved back, more like, but yeah, just a little while ago,” Even says. He doesn’t really have the energy to explain more than that, but this guy can fill in the blanks on his own if he wants to. “You into photography or something?”

“More of a film nerd, myself.” The guy gestures to the empty seat next to him. “May I - ?”

Even shrugs. Not like he had much of a plan for the afternoon, anyway. “Me too, actually,” he says. He holds out his camera. “Do you want to check it out?”

“Hell yes,” the guy says. He takes the camera from Even carefully, which, fair. If it breaks, there will indeed be hell to pay. “Are you working on a project?”

“Not really. Kind of just doing this for myself, I guess. Taking it at my own pace.”

Last year, he might have hated admitting that out loud. Might not have even let himself do something like this. It used to feel like everything he tried to film should have a purpose, some type of message he wanted to say to the world, or else why bother? After a while, though, it started feeling empty. He knows it did, knows how exhausting it was just to lift the camera up to his face. To force himself to think about everything so much when deep down, he knew he didn’t really want to.

This, right here, this random street in Oslo filled with people he might not ever come across again, doesn’t feel empty at all.

“That’s chill,” the guy says with a nod. He’s flicking through the shots Even took today, which Even doesn’t mind. What’s the point of trying to catch stuff on film if no one’s around to see it? “Damn, this is good stuff. Are you in school for it or something?”

Even grimaces, though the compliment does warm his heart a little. “Nah, third year at Nissen,” he says.

“Yikes,” the guy says sympathetically. “No worries, me neither. Not yet, anyway. I’m taking a gap year and then I’m going to kick the asses of those film school applications _so hard_.”

Even laughs again. “You show those applications who’s boss.”

“Oh, I plan on it,” the guy says with a grin. “It’s nice to meet a fellow film guy, none of my friends are into it at all but we have a Youtube channel so I have to do all the actual work. Every time I so much as mention camera specs there’s this huge chorus of, ‘speak Norwegian’, as if I just said something complex?”

“They’re only mortals,” Even says, shaking his head. You can’t expect them to get it.”

“Of course not, what was I thinking?” He hands Even back his camera. “Although I don’t know that you’re much better. You look like a total romantic. Let me guess, your favorite director’s John Hughes.”

Even can’t help but grin. “Baz Luhrmann, actually.”

“Holy shit, that’s worse.”

He laughs. “And what about you, mystery film guy? Who’s the best director?”

“Michael Bay.”

Even snorts. “You’re shitting me.”

“Yeah, I am,” he says, face splitting into a wide grin. “I don’t think there is one, honestly. I mean, I like a lot of different films. They’ve all got something special to bring to the table. A lot of movies you can’t judge against each other, anyway. They’re too different.”

Even nods, considering. “I get that,” he says. “It’s kind of weird when people try to demean, for example, romcoms, just for the sake of genre, or being, I don’t know, less artistic than something that’s supposed to be more highbrow?”

“God, yes. Like, what the fuck is art, though? What does that even _mean_?”

“Right,” Even says - and okay, maybe he could talk about this forever if he wasn’t careful, and maybe he should be, but this stranger’s eyes are all wide and bright like he actually gets it, so he lets himself keep going - “like, how do you judge what art is? Who decides? I mean, if you ask me, if it makes you feel something, that already means something, right?”

The guy snaps his fingers. “It’s all about the connection. It’s all about making your audience feel _seen_. If there’s one person, just one person out there who feels that way, I’d say you’re probably already doing pretty well.”

“Yeah,” Even says. “I mean, what right do you have to tell other people how to feel about something just because of, like, production value?”

The guy’s face lights up. “Exactly, man,” he says. “Exactly that. You get it.”

His phone chimes, then, and he pulls it out to squint at the screen. “Gotta meet up with my boys now,” he says, sounding apologetic. “Hey, you should come hang out with us sometime, though. It’s gotta be pretty lonely if you just moved to Oslo. We’re filming a video for our channel tomorrow, actually, I wouldn’t mind the help.”

Even leans back in his seat. “Ah, I already have plans with my boyfriend,” he says, keeping his eyes on the stranger beside him. It might seem kind of silly to watch so carefully for someone else’s reaction to something that’s such an integral part of Even’s life, but he’s been out for long enough to know that it’s necessary.

The guy doesn’t seem to notice Even’s wariness. He just nods.

“Some other time, then,” he says. “Do you have Facebook? What’s your name?”

“Ah, texting would probably be best, actually.” Even pulls out his phone. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask me for my name. Talk about stranger danger.”

“Hey, now, I’ve got priorities, okay?”

“Knowing who my favorite director is more important than my name?” Even says, raising his eyebrows.

“Absolutely.”

Even smiles and sticks out his hand. “I’m Even. And you?”

“Mikael,” he says, beaming as he takes Even’s hand. “Nice to meet you, dude.”

-

_iv._

Isak’s not as nervous as he thought he’d be.

He can feel the edge of it, of course, vaguely in his chest and at the fringes of his thoughts as he makes his way to his mother’s house. But it’s manageable, at least. He takes in a few long, slow breaths, and that’s enough to make his lungs lose a little of their tightness. When he thinks about meeting his mother for the first time in months, he doesn’t dread it.

It’s mostly thanks to the texts Even’s been sending him regularly throughout the day, if he’s being totally honest. Memes, gifs, nothing sophisticated, but it gives him something to focus on, something to look forward to that isn’t wrapped up in tons of emotional baggage. And he doesn’t feel obligated to think of an appropriate response. It’s enough to know that Even is thinking about him. That he wants to share his life with him, minor details and all.

According to the most recent messages, Even met someone interesting while on his shoot. A fellow film nerd. Honestly, Isak can’t be surprised. Even is exactly the kind of person who’d make friends with a random stranger off the street, just like that. He can’t imagine that anyone would pass up the opportunity to be friends with Even, anyway. That’d be pretty much the stupidest choice you could possibly make.

With a steeling breath, Isak turns onto the street he’s looking for. Walks past the houses, walks past Even’s old home.

And there it is. The house he grew up in.

He takes a moment to lean his head back and soak the sight of it in. He feels strangely out of place looking at it, like he’s having a dream that feels off for reasons he can’t name. It’s only been a few months, but he can’t really imagine living here again. Can’t imagine doing much more than stopping in for tea, maybe an awkward meal. He wonders if he’s supposed to be sad about that.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out.

 **Even the Person** ****  
_Have you made it yet?_  
_If you don’t answer I’m going to assume you made it_  
_Or should I assume you’ve died???_ _  
Please don’t be dead Isak I need you_

He smiles.

 **Isak Valtersen** ****  
_I’m not dead_ _  
_ _I’m about to go in_

 **Even the Person** ****  
_!!!_  
_I am very glad to hear this_  
_The you being alive part I mean_  
_Although I’m very proud of you for making it too, I’m sure it was a treacherous journey_ _  
You feeling okay?_

 **Isak Valtersen** **  
** _I think so_

 **Even the Person** ****  
_Okay_ _  
_ _Good luck <3 _

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_Thanks_ _  
_ _ <3 _

Isak slips his phone back into his pocket. He squares his shoulders and walks up to the front door. He knocks.

A few beats of silence. Then, the door opens, and his mother is standing in the doorway, looking up at him.

She looks well, considering all that she’s been through lately. Her hair’s pulled back from her face, and she looks maybe a little thinner around the edges than he remembered but otherwise, good.

And she’s smiling. She’s smiling so big.

(He didn’t expect that.)

“Isak,” she says, and before he knows it, she’s pulling him into a hug.

Her arms are surprisingly strong. He feels himself freeze for a moment, not necessarily because he didn’t expect it or want it but because he’s uncertain how to proceed from here, but she doesn’t let go, and it feels -

Better. Better than he expected. And familiar, deeply, inarticulately so. He hasn’t felt this in so long, but maybe your mother’s embrace is a feeling you’re just never going to forget, whether you want to or not.

He wraps his arms around her, and that feels good, too, the weight of it settling inside his chest in a way he can’t explain.

“Hi, mom,” he says, and if his voice shakes on the words, neither of them say anything about it.

She pulls away and pats him lightly on the shoulder. “Lunch?” she says as she leads him into the kitchen.

“I, uh, I already ate,” Isak says awkwardly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Do you want tea? I have cake.”

“Cake sounds…” Isak exhales. “Yeah, cake sounds good.”

She busies herself for a while, flitting about the kitchen and humming a song under her breath Isak can’t quite make out. It’s a good day, he thinks. Or one of the better ones. She seems focused, present. That’s a promising sign, especially coming off of recent events.

(It’s been months, but this is something he hasn’t forgotten how to do yet, either. How to judge what kind of day it is. How to watch for the signs of something that could turn better or worse. He’s not sure if he thinks it’s a good thing or not, that he still remembers.)

She sets the plate of cake in front of him and settles into the chair next to him with a satisfied noise. “It’s your favorite recipe,” she says.

Isak looks down at it, ignoring the sudden tightness in his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “It really is.”

He eats in silence, glancing up at his mother occasionally. Her face is turned to the window. He can’t see her expression from here, but he does see loose strands of hair from her updo falling over her ears, the pale back of her neck. He sees the erratic rhythm her fingers tap against the surface of the table, too. The dull, rough edges of her fingernails. She’s bitten them down to the nub, but not enough to pierce the skin around them. That has to be a good sign, too.

Good signs, bad signs. He should really stop thinking about her in such black and white terms. But it’s a habit that’s hard to break. He used to build her up in his head when he was younger. As a kid, he thought she was an unstoppable force of nature, capable of practically everything. As a teenager he thought of her mostly as someone who could never not be okay, because if she wasn’t okay, that would mean he’d failed.

(At what, he’d never truly been able to figure out; still, it would be a failure.)

Now, he looks at her, and he sees a person. And he thinks, maybe that’s who she was all along.

He puts his fork down. “I, uh...” He clears his throat. “How are you doing?”

She turns to him. He can see, now, that she’s smiling. Smiling softly.

“Better,” she says. “I’m doing better.”

Isak nods. “Good,” he says. “That’s - I’m glad.”

“Me too,” she says.

They sit in the silence, for a while. He half-expects it to grate against him, mostly because in this house that’s what it used to do. Used to dig under his skin and into his heart until he couldn’t fucking stand it. And he used to imagine what it would be like to claw it out of his head if he could, reach into his skull and rip out the silence until it bled out of his thoughts and left behind words he could actually use. He doesn’t imagine that, anymore. He doesn’t want to.

Her eyes are still on him. She blinks slowly.

“I missed you, Isak,” she says, and those words don’t grate against him either. Instead, for a whole second, he almost forgets how to breathe.

(It’s how normal that sentence sounds, ultimately, that surprises him the most. How easy. There’s nothing attached to it. No guilt. No blame. It’s a truth he can recognize. And it hurts.)

He looks down, vaguely aware of the way he’s blinking at his plate.

“I missed you, too,” he says.

This time, his words don’t shake at all.

When he looks back up at her, she’s still smiling. “How are _you_ doing?” she asks.

“I…” He takes in a deep breath, and his lungs feel stronger, now. “School’s doing okay. I’m still getting sixes in biology.”

She nods. Her smile grows a fraction. “How’s Jonas?”

“He’s okay, too. He says hi.”

The look on her face is soft again, soft as anything.

“And do you know how Even’s doing?” she says.

He stares at her. “Did dad tell you - ”

“I just heard he’s back from Stavanger,” she says. “But I always thought you two might find each other again.”

“Yeah?” Isak says, taken aback.

“That’s what you’ve always done,” she says. “You always come back to the people you love.”

Isak swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. “Oh.”

“Did you?” she says. She’s still smiling, after all this time.

Isak doesn’t know what his face is doing. Doesn’t think he’s capable of changing it, even if he did know.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess we did.”

Silence again, and this time he doesn’t expect anything from it. This time, it feels like it’s meant to be there.

He frowns down at his plate.

“Can I tell you something?” he says.

Her gaze floats back to him slowly. “What is it, Isak?”

He takes in a deep breath. Miraculously, his hands do not shake. Neither do his thoughts. Neither do his insides.

“I think I’m gay,” he says.

He’s wondered for a long time if this was ever going to be something he’d be able to say out loud. He thought maybe if he did it would be to someone he knew would take it well. To Jonas, maybe, or to Eskild. To Even. Someone he could actually trust with this word.

The thing about his mother is, he doesn’t know if she’ll take it well at all. In fact, when he thought about this moment before, she never even occurred to him as an option.

Maybe that was always the issue, though. Maybe things got so bad because he didn’t trust her.

(Or maybe things got so bad because he didn’t trust himself.)

Either way, he thinks he wants to let himself. He doesn’t know if he knows how. Doesn’t know if he’s capable of it.

Still, he can try.

He hazards a glance at her, almost afraid to see her face. But he sees it, in the end. He sees that her smile hasn’t disappeared.

She leans forward and takes hold of his hand.

“My son,” she says. “You’re so brave.”

His breath feels stuck in his throat.

She reaches out with her other hand. Her thumb brushes a tear off his cheekbone. He can feel it smearing against his skin, cold and wet. He blinks. He hadn’t even known that was there.

“I’ve loved you from the first day I saw you,” she whispers.

Something bubbles up in his chest, something tight and painful that lodges itself in his throat. When he tries to breathe in, it bursts.

And now he feels the tears as they come, now they blur his vision until he can’t see the room anymore and he can’t stop it, can’t stop the burning behind his eyelids and the ragged rhythm of his breaths, and he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to.

She squeezes his hand tighter. And she doesn’t say anything.

And neither does he.

Eventually, the world goes clear again. He wipes at his eyes. They sit there in the quiet. It feels that way inside him, too. A quiet he doesn’t want to disturb.

Slowly, she takes her hand off of his, leaning back in her chair. He takes that as his cue to get up. He brings his empty plate to the sink, rinses it under warm water and scrubs it lightly with the green sponge resting next to the tap handle and puts it on the drying rack, the motions a habit he could never quite forget. He comes back to the table, and she’s still looking at him.

“Can I tell you something else?” Isak says.

She nods, eyes gentle, line of her mouth gentler.

“I’m seeing someone,” he says.

“Oh.” She sounds surprised, but pleased. “Do I get to meet him one day?”

“Technically, you already have,” he says.

Now, the look on her face is knowing. “Is it Even?”

He nods, not quite able to stop himself from grinning at that. It’s out there, he thinks. It’s _out there_.

Her answering smile is warmer than anything. “He’s loved you from the first day he saw you, too,” she tells him.

He can feel his smile grow, and he can feel the warmth grow in his chest too. The whole damn universe feels like it’s expanding. And he’s glad for it.

He’s so fucking glad for it.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

-

_v._

Even swings the door open about an hour before midnight without waiting for a knock. Isak’s standing there as his text message said he would, leaning heavily against the doorframe. His beanie is pulled snugly over his ears, curls of his hair barely visible under it. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes and shoulders sagging, but he’s smiling, too, smiling so warmly Even has no space inside him to think this is anything but real.

“Hey,” Isak says.

“Hey,” Even says. “How’d it go?”

“Good,” Isak says, “really well, actually,” and then he’s reaching for Even, reaching around him, arms wrapping over the small of his back, and Even doesn’t have to think to put his arms around Isak too, to curl them around his shoulders and press Isak close to him, closer, closer. Isak buries his face in the crook of Even’s shoulder, and Even’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, and they stand there.

“You smell nice,” Isak says against his skin.

Even lets out a delighted laugh, half muffled in Isak’s hair. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you inside.”

Isak pulls away slightly, and the look in his eyes, soft and wondering and full of awe, is enough to make Even stop in his tracks. His hands come up to cup Isak’s face almost of their own volition, thumbs skimming over his cold cheekbones.

“You’re beautiful,” Isak breathes, and Even leans in and kisses him.

Time stops for a long moment.

Or it doesn’t. It doesn’t, and the seconds tick by as Even stands in his doorway, the cold night air seeping easily through the thin fabric of his shirt and nipping at his bare toes, stark against his skin. The seconds go by, and they turn to minutes, but they could turn to hours for all he cares just so long as he has this, the face of a boy he loves in his hands and the soft warmth of his lips against his. He can’t bring himself to care about anything else in the entire world, not if he can have this for the rest of his life.

Quietly, they part. Isak brushes his nose against Even’s.

“You’re cold,” he says, a soft accusation.

“No, I’m not,” Even says, ignoring the fresh goosebumps prickling on his arms.

Isak runs his hand over them, which oddly enough is what makes Even shiver. “Fucking liar,” he says. “Let’s go to bed.”

And yeah, okay, now that Isak mentions it, bed kind of sounds like the best place to be right now.

Isak pulls Even away from the door, kicking it shut with his foot, and toward his own bedroom. It only takes a few moments for them to get ready, Isak tugging off his hat and pulling his shirt over his head with casual efficiency, and then they’re climbing up onto Even’s bed, collapsing over each other unceremoniously. Even tugs the covers over them and wraps his arms around Isak. He doesn’t know what it’ll take for him to get used to the feeling of being next to Isak like this, but honestly, if they’ve known each other for a decade of their lives and the way Isak looks when he’s tucked under his arms is still enough to make the blood sing loudly in his veins, he’s not sure he ever will be.

“What’re you looking at?” Isak mumbles. He doesn’t sound exhausted, but he does sound impossibly content with where he is, like if he had the choice he’d never move for the rest of forever. Even doesn’t think he’d mind that so much.

“What do you think I’m looking at?” Even says.

“Something stupid.”

“Aw, Isak, be kinder to yourself.” Even kisses Isak’s forehead. “You’re not stupid.”

Isak says nothing, just burrows closer to Even’s chest. “Can you turn off the light?”

Even obliges, reaching for the switch and flicking it off. The darkness is immediate and all-encompassing, like a good hug. It makes Even want to hug Isak tighter, so he does, running his hands over the skin of his back and pressing their warm chests together. If he leaned his face forward at the right angle, he could bury it in Isak’s hair. He doesn’t because in the darkness he can still see the shape of Isak’s face, and it’s shadowy and vague but it’s still fucking beautiful.

Isak leans his head up, presses a kiss to Even’s shoulder, drops back down heavily. “You know,” he says, “this is nice, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to actually fall asleep like this.”

“What, why not?” Even squeezes his arms around Isak even tighter. “Isn’t this the perfect sleeping position?”

“You’re a goddamn human space heater. I’m gonna die of heat stroke in the night.”

“No, but that means if I let you go, you’ll die of hypothermia, instead.”

“Fuck off, I’m already sweating,” Isak grumbles, though he makes no move to pull away.

Even relaxes his grip with a laugh. “I don’t want you to die. That’d make me too sad.”

“Then I’m never gonna die,” Isak says. “I’m gonna become immortal. I’m gonna be a vampire.”

“Wow, such goals.” Even reaches out and tangles his fingers through Isak’s hair slowly. “Like Twilight, you mean?”

“No, not like Twilight, the fuck? Fuck that book. Fuck that _movie_.”

“If you were a vampire, you’d definitely have a better movie.”

“Obviously.” Isak makes a considering noise. “You should make one about me. When I become a vampire.”

“Why do I have to wait that long?” Even tucks a curl of hair behind Isak’s ear. “Can’t I make a movie about you now?”

“Or make a movie about us.”

Even hums. “You don’t think that’d be too clichéd?”

“Why would it be clichéd?” Isak says. Even can just visualize his frown.

“Because you’re cheesy as fuck,” Even says, tracing his fingertips over the lobe of Isak’s ear.

“ _I’m_ the cheesy one?” Isak says indignantly.

“Yup,” Even says. Warmth blooms in his chest, and he can’t stop it from turning into a grin. “It’s just you. All on you, I’m not cheesy at all.”

“This is slander. This is defamation. Also this is just a fucking lie.”

The silence sits between them for a moment. Even follows the pace of Isak’s breathing, a steady rhythm in the dark. It doesn’t even out, so he’s not close to unconsciousness, but it’s quiet, and if Even closes his eyes, he can almost pretend sleep is an easy thing for them both to reach.

“You’re right,” he says. “We’re both the cheesiest fuckers on the planet. Which means our story’s also cheesy.”

“Why’s it cheesy?”

Even thinks about it.

“It would go like this,” he says. “Once upon a time there was a boy, and he was born in a house, and in the house next to his lived another boy. And they didn’t know what it was like outside their houses, and they never had to know, because they had each other and that was enough.”

Isak is silent. Even can’t see his face, but that’s okay. He can imagine it well enough.

“So they had each other,” Even continues. “And they were friends. The very best of friends. They could probably set fucking world records for how epic their friendship was.”

He leans their foreheads together, close, closer, until he can feel Isak’s breathing against his skin. He hopes Isak can feel his, too.

“And they thought they could have it forever,” Even says quietly. “They thought they could have it forever, and they were right.”

Silence, again, in the dark.

“Doesn’t that sound clichéd as fuck?” Even says. “And besides, where’s the drama? No one even _dies_.”

“Would you want them to?” Isak says, incredulous.

“God, no.” Even brushes his lips against Isak’s temple. “But it’s not a Baz Luhrmann film, for sure.”

“You’re right, it’s not Baz Luhrmann’s.” Isak stifles a yawn. “It’s ours.”

He says it as easily as an afterthought, as if the words don’t settle warmly inside Even’s gut and flood his whole chest with happiness. As if his heart doesn’t fucking implode on itself to hear something like that. In the open air, it sounds easy, and maybe that’s because it is.

 _Ours_ , Even decides, is his new favorite word.

He nudges his nose against Isak’s cheek. “Hey,” he says. “Guess what?”

“What?”

Slowly, he trails his nose across Isak’s skin. Up and down his cheek, against his temple, across his nose, too. It takes a bit of time, but eventually he finds Isak’s mouth, and he brushes his lips against it. Isak tilts his head forward, and their mouths press together this time, a silent declaration in the dark. The feeling of it fills Even up from his toes to his lungs, to the very brim. He closes his eyes.

“I love you,” Even says.

Isak presses a kiss to the corner of Even’s mouth. “Love you too, baby,” he says sleepily.

Even can’t hold back the smile that bursts across his face now. He doesn’t want to.

“Good night, Isak,” he whispers. It feels like the biggest thing he’s ever said.

-

_vi._

Even’s staring at him when he wakes up.

“Good morning,” Isak says roughly, rubbing at his eye with his fist. “Stop looking at my face.”

Even’s hand comes up to rest against Isak’s cheek. “But it’s such a nice face.”

Isak sticks his tongue out at him in retaliation. Even does nothing but laugh, which is always a nice sound but also incredibly overwhelming when it’s the very first thing you hear in the morning. Isak can hardly handle how big his heart feels right now.

He slaps his hand against Even’s, holding it in place. “So,” he says. “How’s today going to be?”

Even grins. “How do you mean?”

“Is it a good or a bad day?” Isak says.

“Good,” Even says. “Great. The best. You know why?”

Isak raises his eyebrows. “Why?”

Even pulls a laptop from behind him and onto his lap. “We’re going to rewatch _Romeo + Juliet_ today,” he announces.

Isak stares at him. “What,” he says.

“Right now, actually!” Even says cheerfully, and Jesus, can this guy calm down, Isak’s been awake for literally two minutes.

(The worst part is, Isak can tell this isn’t a joke. Even is frighteningly serious about this. Then again, when isn’t he?)

“What the _fuck_ ,” Isak groans. “Why.”

Even nudges Isak’s foot with his own. “You never got to see how it ended,” he says.

Isak rolls his eyes. Some would argue he had very good reason for that, but what the fuck ever. There are more important things to fight about right now.

“But why does that mean I have to see it from the beginning?” Isak says. “Just show me the last, like, minute. That’s literally all I missed.”

“Blasphemer,” Even gasps. “You have to see it in context. That’s the only way to experience the ending of this movie, trust me.”

“But that takes so much fucking _time_. Can’t we just lie here, and, I don’t know, what do normal couples do in the morning, cuddle?”

Even pokes Isak in the ribs. “We’re not normal couples.”

“I take great offense to that, I hope you know,” Isak says.

“You just don’t want to cry again,” Even sniffs.

Isak gapes at him. “The fuck do you mean by _again_?”

“I know you,” Even says seriously. “And I know this movie is going to make you cry every time you see it.”

Isak shoves his hand in Even’s face. “Good bye.”

Even grabs at his wrist, laughing. “Why are you being so rude? I’m just telling the truth.”

“You’re the one who’s being rude!”

“Such accusations,” Even says. He slides his hand up and tangles his fingers in the gaps between Isak’s. Isak tries to ignore the way this immediately makes him stop struggling in Even’s hold.

(He fails.)

“Why does it matter, anyway,” Isak mumbles. “I got all the important things. He dies, she dies, the end. Technically I didn’t even have to watch the movie to know that.”

“Hey, endings are important,” Even says. “It’s when everything makes sense. The whole movie’s leading up to the last few seconds, you know? The endings are what _stay_ with you.”

Isak frowns. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t like thinking about them, so much.”

Even looks over at him. “No?”

“I don’t know.” Isak shrugs. “They just… they seem so permanent, you know?”

Like with _Romeo + Juliet_. That’s all the characters get. One epic death scene, and they’re never going to have a chance at love again. The screen turns to black, and that’s all there is. You can hit the replay button, but then they’re doomed to living the same story and reaching the same ending, over and over again. Either way, it’s a pretty shitty deal.

Even’s gazing at him softly. He squeezes Isak’s hand.

“But we’re just talking about movies, here,” he says. “Real life is different.”

(Seriously, it’s fucking scary how Even always seems to know what he means.)

Isak snorts, ignoring the way his heart stumbles in his chest at Even’s words. “Are you saying real life doesn’t have endings?”

“No,” Even says. He brings Isak’s hand up to his mouth and kisses the inside of his wrist. “I’m saying life doesn’t stop after some things end.”

Fondness swells in his chest. He can’t ignore that. It’s pretty much impossible at this point. So he doesn’t try.

“That just sounds pretentious as hell,” he says instead.

“Maybe,” Even says, smiling. “Maybe _I’m_ pretentious as hell.”

“You’re not,” Isak says.

Even raises his eyebrows. “No?”

“Nah,” Isak says. “If you were pretentious, I wouldn’t even associate with you.”

“Oh, so you’ve got standards, now,” Even says with a laugh.

“Yeah,” Isak says, “but you meet all of them.”

Even grins as if this is news to him. As if it could ever be news, as if it hasn’t been true for over half their lives. “Do I?”

“Obviously,” Isak says. He grabs the back of Even’s neck, pressing their mouths together. It’s an awkward angle, and it’s messy as hell, and Even’s breath tastes kind of gross and Isak is sure his does too. But it’s still the kind of kiss that steals his breath away. All of their kisses are that kind of kiss. He’s certain that’s never going to change. He’s certain he doesn’t want it to.

They part, and Even keeps his face close to Isak’s, eyes full of so much love Isak feels like he might burst.

“I’m glad,” Isak says. “I’m so fucking glad I know you, Even Bech Næsheim.”

Even’s face lights up with the most beautiful smile Isak’s ever seen. They’re all the most beautiful, but this? The sight of his happiness, the feeling of it? This blows every other fucking thing in the world away.

“I’m glad you know me too, Isak Valtersen,” Even says, smiling like he’s never going to stop.

Isak smiles back. “So,” he says. “Are we starting this movie?”

Even’s grin grows wider. “Ready whenever you are.”

Isak turns his attention to the computer, the movie already pulled up.

(Honestly, he’s been ready for years.)

And he presses play.

****

**_the end_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooooooly shit. We made it, kids. Some housekeeping:
> 
> -Parts I, II, III, and the epilogue are named after "[Pristine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fw7dCAyyP9A)" by Mantaraybryn, "[Tower/W.O.H.L.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__wKb6B-Wn8)" by Wildcats! Wildcats!, "[Tongue Tied](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1x1wjGKHjBI)" by Grouplove, and "[Lifetimes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JKEJqCCxJTs)" by Oh Wonder, respectively.
> 
> -Believe it or not, there are a heapload of ideas that didn’t make it in here [Even’s POV of P2?? Jonas/Mahdi subplot romance??? Noora/Eva/Vilde OT3 spin-off??????]. But I have produced a frankly absurd amount of words for this verse already so I think I’m going to leave it alone for now. The rest of this story, I leave in your hands!
> 
> -This fic took a lot out of me, so I think it’s going to be the last longfic I attempt on my own for a while. I do have some other things in the works but I have no idea yet if I'll have the time to make them become actual things. IDK basically. We'll see. Maybe keep an eye out? Who knows what’ll happen in the future?
> 
> -Endless, endless thanks to my beta readers [Lyds](http://boxesfullofsanasmiling.tumblr.com), [rumpelsnorcack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpelsnorcack/pseuds/rumpelsnorcack), and [Lise](http://mouthfulofbirds.tumblr.com/), who I literally could not have done this without. You have given me and this project so much of your time and assistance and I could never thank you enough for all that you have done for me. My love to you until the end of time. <3
> 
> -And finally, all of my thanks to everyone who made it to the end. I could never express how much it means to me that you would take the time to read my words, and all I have to offer is my infinite gratitude. So - thank you, friends, for your encouragement and support. It means the entire world to me.
> 
> Well, that's all I've got. Come find me on [tumblr](https://canonicallyanxious.tumblr.com/), if you'd like. Cheers!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [making new clichés poster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014251) by [sunnze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnze/pseuds/sunnze)




End file.
